Real and Right

Copyright © 2023 Michael O. Leavitt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reveiwers, who may quote brief passages in review.

ISBN: 979-8-218-18739-2-072-9

Publisher: Lairdhouse Trust

Permissions: Deseret News, The Salt Lake Tribune

Disclaimer: The author and publisher take no responsibility for any errors, omissions, or contradictions which may exist in the book.

Cover Photo: Howard Jackman

Writer: Michael O. Leavitt

Contributing Writers: Laurie Sullivan Maddox

Editor: Megan Anderson

Designer/Production Coordinator: Roxanne Bergener

Special thanks to: Utah State Archives

First printing October 2023

Real and Right

VOLUME 2

The personal history of Michael O. Leavitt

Preface

I am a westerner. My hometown is Cedar City, Utah, where I was raised with my five brothers by two loving parents. Time, place, and purpose all begin there.

My forebears had become westerners in the mid-nineteenth century. The Okerlund branch of the family settled in Loa, Utah, while the Leavitts put down roots in Bunkerville, Nevada. One of those ancestors was Sarah Sturtevant Leavitt, who in an unpolished hand wrote down an overview of her life in six pages. Her story describes her conversion to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the persecutions she suffered as a result. She experienced the loss of child and spouse, hunger, exhaustion, freezing cold, searing heat, and a journey both on foot and by handcart to settle this western home of mine.

Sarah’s essay and others on both sides of my family, close and distant, not only inspired me—they stirred an innate feeling of duty to capture what I have experienced and learned. Through genealogy, geography, faith, and affection, I am a westerner because of them.

So now I have concluded seven decades, it is my turn to add chapters to the history of my family, church, state, and nation. I do so with the aspiration that my reflections will offer similar benefit to future generations. Because of my forebears, my life has been much different than those gritty ancestors of mine. I have visited every continent; interacted with kings and presidents; come to know the poor as well as the powerful of the world; and witnessed historical events both triumphant and tragic—none of which would have occurred without my forebears’ sacrifices, goodness, and endurance.

Life and leadership are a generational relay. In fact, the compelling need I felt to write this personal history may have been driven by a desire to discover for myself whether my contributions met my obligations.

A personal history falls on a continuum of candor somewhere between a journal and a published autobiography. It is not a substitute for a journal that records the activities from each day, whether important or trivial. However, it provides the luxury of length and the inclusion of whatever I want to recount.

Volume II: Real and Right

Volume II recounts my stewardship as governor of Utah between January 1993 and November 2003, when I resigned to become a Cabinet officer in the administration of President George W. Bush. The title of this volume, “Real and Right,” was the theme of my campaign for governor in the 1992 election. I wrote this book with the intent to provide a window into my approach to governor, as well as give some insight to the unique aspects of being governor in Utah. I detail how I chose my Cabinet and other important staff members, how I dealt with the media, and how I worked with the state legislature. I give a general overview of the important tasks a governor has, such as giving speeches or staying close with the people.

And since I could not have been governor without my dear wife, Jackie, I have included a chapter on her own initiatives, which have also had a huge impact on Utah. I have also included a chapter on my recollections of September 11, 2001, and some events that occurred because of it as that was also a day that irreversibly affected our country.

My personal history will consist of at least four volumes:

• Volume I: A Sense of Place and Purpose

This volume encompasses both my Leavitt and Okerlund heritage, as well as my own recollections, beginning with my birth in 1951 and ending in 1993 when I was inaugurated governor of Utah at the age of forty-one. This volume includes my upbringing and young adulthood; my early professional life; marriage to Jackie; and the beginnings of our own family together.

Most of Volume I was drawn from two separate books I wrote in 2007 and 2008 with the help of a former colleague in the Governor’s Office, Therese Anderson Grinceri. Those were titled A Sense of Place and A Sense of Purpose. The 2021 version consolidated the two into one— A Sense of Place and Purpose

• Volume II: Real and Right

• Volume III: A Sacred Trust

In my first inaugural address, I used the phrase “a sacred trust” to describe the responsibility I felt as governor of Utah. I have chosen to use the same phrase as the title of Volume III. Volume III responds to a question I am often asked: how would I summarize our most impactful accomplishments during the time I was governor? It takes time for the answer to such a question to mature; real impact occurs over many years. It has now been nearly twenty years since my service concluded, which is plenty of time to get a good sense of what worked and what did not.

In a history like this, one cannot write in great detail about everything, so I asked myself a

question: What initiatives produced change and an impact beyond twenty-five years? This book seeks to answer that question by detailing eight legacy accomplishments I believe shaped the future of Utah long-term. Against that standard, I have written chapters on subjects such as the 2002 Olympic games; the land exchange we did with the federal government involving reform of the state’s school trust land system; my role in returning control of welfare to the states; the founding and establishment of Western Governors University; creation of a charter schools movement in Utah; the Centennial Highway Fund, which organized forty-four highway projects, including the rebuild of Interstate 15 and construction of Legacy Highway; and an initiative to double the number of engineering graduates from Utah’s colleges and universities via a partnership between high schools and higher education, which produced forty thousand new engineers and positioned Utah as a technology capital.

• Volume IV: In Service as a Family

Volume IV turns the focus onto family, with a central question: How did my service as governor affect each of them? When I was elected, Jackie’s and my five children ranged in age from two to fifteen years old. Jackie was thrust into a whirlwind of new expectations and duties, her life no longer her own in many ways. My entry into public life had a profound impact not just on us, but on our parents, my brothers, and her sisters.

To capture this part of our family’s life during these years with accuracy and integrity, I invited Laurie Sullivan Maddox, who served as a speechwriter in the Governor’s Office, to be my co-author on the entire volume. Our desire has been for Volume

III to be a means by which each of the family members could tell their story and perspective. Laurie interviewed each family member at length and then wrote a portion of the book devoted to their account. Each member of the family was given an opportunity to review the chapter for facts and tone.

My contributions to Volume III came in the form of the introduction and a series of short essays— personal reflections on each of my family members’ experiences—placed at the end of their chapters. I also recount my thoughts as a parent during this demanding time and how our family preserved traditions and order.

Future Writing Projects

I plan to write additional volumes of my personal history, since there are many more experiences I hope to write about, such as my time serving on President Bush’s Cabinet, founding and contributing to the success of a group of health care businesses named Leavitt Partners, and my current position as the president of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square. I also plan to write a volume devoted to my spiritual feelings and experiences. While I have alluded to spiritual feelings and my faith in various parts of volumes one through four, because some of these are more personal in nature, I will write about them separately in a volume that will be held more closely then the others.

It is my hope that these volumes will resonate with readers and take hold in subsequent generations’ histories the same way Sarah Sturtevant Leavitt’s handwritten six pages of personal history galvanized mine.

Acknowledgments

In acknowledging those who contributed so much to the completion of this history project, I also wish to describe the process used to write and compile these volumes in hopes my blueprint may be useful to those who feel a similar obligation to capture the events of their lives.

The inspiration I derived from reading my ancestor Sarah Sturtevant Leavitt’s six-page, handwritten history first surfaced in the late 1990s. I was serving as governor at the time and had realized early in my tenure that the telling of personal stories could be an effective way to entertain audiences and convey complicated subjects. However, I suspected I was wearing out some of the stories I used most often. One Sunday afternoon, I decided to create an inventory of events in my life that could be illustrative and would provide a larger pool of possible subjects. Within a short time, I had filled a page. These were not profound stories but rather a list of small, unique, and relatable details.

The list sat for a couple of years. It was then that I read Sarah’s history and concluded that I should not be intimidated by the process of writing. Sarah’s writing was hard to read and had many misspellings, and yet it was a treasure to me. The thought took hold that anything I wrote would be better than nothing at all.

On Sundays and at other moments when I had time, I began to write details around each small tidbit, realizing as I went that the stories could be aggregated into subject matter categories, which then began to tell a larger story. After I transitioned from state government to the federal position in Washington, I recruited Therese Anderson Grinceri to help me compile my memories into a book. In 2006 and 2007 we completed the first two volumes that are now merged into one, A Sense of Place and Purpose

After that, my writing was varied and inconsistent until 2018, when I decided to get more serious about the project. Therese was no longer available, so I reached out to another speech-writing partner from my days in the Governor’s Office—Laurie Sullivan Maddox. I had first known Laurie as a news reporter with the Associated Press and The Salt Lake Tribune. She joined the governor’s staff during my second term and became a co-author of many of my most important speeches, as governor and as administrator of

the Environmental Protection Agency. Laurie has a creative flair and native capacity to give life to words. I wanted to capture that style again for my history venture, and Laurie was persuaded to reenlist. Our working partnership has taken two forms. Through all the books written so far other than Volume IV, I have generated the words and the history, and she has made them better by pushing me for clarity, asking the right questions, and rewriting or refining select portions.

At the beginning of 2021, I set a goal that during the calendar year we would complete at least Volumes I and II, and possibly Volume III. To do that we added two additional people to our little team. Megan Anderson, a busy mom and extraordinary editor, joined our effort. With her editing experience, she has brought order and consistency that neither Laurie nor I could focus on.

Megan also introduced us to Roxannne Bergener, whose skill as a layout artist has combined shape and beauty into a wonderful design. She has a fantastic eye for choosing photos and artifacts that bring our work to life. Like Megan, Roxanne has given our text generation effort structure and discipline. Her dry and irreverent sense of humor enables her to keep us grounded, focused, and somewhere near on schedule. These friendships have been a meaningful part of this experience for me.

Gary Doxey, who was my general counsel in the governor’s office, is a trained historian. He gave me a piece of advice years ago that continues to prove true. He said, “In writing a history, the hardest thing is deciding what to write about. You have to make priority decisions and write.”

As with the other volumes that make up this history, choosing among a wealth of subjects, thousands of pictures, and artifacts has been difficult. I have also suffered over the fact that hundreds of people contributed in important ways to the events described. Not all of them will be mentioned or credited in the way they deserve. For that I have regrets. I hope they will know of my affection and properly attribute the omissions to the complexity of the task.

1

One is 10-41

2 A Campaign

3

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

4 Sta te Capitol, Room 200. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. .

. .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 6

5 T he Cabinet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 1

6 Or ganizing Work as Governor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 2

7 T he Mansion Fire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

8 Sta ying Healthy as Governor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

9 T he Media . . . . . . . . . . . .

Car One is 10-41

State Street does not just extend the full length of the Salt Lake Valley; it declares itself the dominant road, running eighteen miles from the southern suburbs to the metropolitan center. It leads directly to a hillside where a domed neoclassical building majestically stands—the Utah State Capitol. The State Capitol was completed in 1916 and was subsequently celebrated with immense joy and pride by Utahns just two decades into statehood. In many ways, it symbolized the promise of the twentieth century. Citizens stood at the top of the granite stairs to view the panorama of the Salt Lake Valley and the American West as it unfolded before them. I too have stood at the top of those granite steps to overlook the Valley.

That building and I have a long history. Ever since I was a boy, after spending time with my father as he served in the legislature during the early 1960s, the State Capitol has held significance for me, as well as a special place in my heart. However, January 4, 1993, would link me to the Capitol building forever. It was Statehood Day, the ninety-seventh anniversary of Utah becoming America’s forty-fifth state, and inauguration day for me as Utah’s fourteenth governor.

Driving up State Street this particular day, the dramatic reveal of the Capitol complex at the top was unforgettable for me. Framed by bare trees in the winter gray, the massive white

building radiated splendor. Giant flags adorned the great columns; soldiers milled about the grounds, attending to artillery pieces, which would fire a salute precisely at noon as the oath of office was completed. The place bustled with electricity and formality. Inaugurations may be the incoming governor’s show, but they’re the Utah National Guard’s production.

Jackie and I entered the building at the west doors. The rotunda was filled with row upon row of chairs; staging had been erected on the midpoint landing of the east rotunda steps that led to the Supreme Court. People had begun to arrive, and their early-bird status was rewarded by the Jay Welch Chorale and 23rd Army Band, both finishing brief rehearsals. Television camera crews were testing the equipment that would broadcast the ceremonies simultaneously on the state’s television and radio stations. Arrangements had been made for our children to be transported separately so they wouldn’t have to wait—a practical concern for Jackie, who knew the difficulty of containing five children ranging from two-and-a-half years old to sixteen. We were ushered to a committee room within the legislative wing to greet other podium guests and wait for events to start.

“ Ladies and gentlemen, the Governor-Elect, Michael O. Leavitt!“

Protocols called for each platform guest to be introduced separately while standing on the west stairs, then for the guest to proceed down a pathway to the east stairs where the stage stood. There were many guests; members of the Supreme Court, legislative leadership, former governors and first ladies, current and former statewide officers, newly elected officials, outgoing Governor Norm Bangerter and Mrs. Colleen Bangerter, and finally, the new First Lady. Jackie looked beautiful in a striking red jacket and black skirt. She waved at the crowd as she walked, with the poise and confidence

acquired from many occasions in the spotlight as a pageant queen, musical performer, and elementary school teacher.

I was introduced last, accompanied by Adjutant General John Matthews, who would conduct the ceremony. As I stood on the far landing, a man I had known for many years was sitting in the audience directly behind where I was to be introduced. He apparently had a matter he wanted to lobby the new governor about, and I guess he thought this was the perfect chance. He tugged on my pant leg. I looked down to acknowledge him, expecting we would exchange smiles. “I need to talk with you about…” his voice trailed off. Timing is everything. “Do you think we could talk about this later?” I whispered back as the announcer intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Governor-Elect, Michael O. Leavitt!” It was one of the earliest reminders of the duality of elective office. I was both chief executive and public servant.

On I went toward the stairs, and what a lovely walk it was. The band played a Sousa march, and the crowd was made up mostly of my friends and supporters. There were smiles, waves, winks, and thumbs up as I passed. We were all there together to share this particular milestone in both the state’s and my history. They stood and applauded; I walked and choked back tears.

We reached the bottom of the white marble stairs. I intuitively took the steps two at a time, realizing halfway up that I had taken my military escort, General Matthews, by surprise with my double-time ascent. I paused to wait for him. We both laughed and finished the climb. It was a spontaneous expression of how I felt—ready to get started with the job. Possibly, too, it was a younger man’s impatience: at forty-one, I was the second youngest governor in Utah history.

Once settled in my seat I could see the faces of all the people I love the most. Jackie was by my side; I could see my children, dad and mom, and Jackie’s parents. Both grandmothers were there, as well as my brothers and their families, friends, the campaign team who had fought long odds and won. One would like to savor a moment like that, and I wish I could report some profound thoughts.

But up to this point, it was mostly an adrenaline rush constrained by the practical considerations of simply carrying out the process. There was only one nagging little worry. I reminded myself more than once, “Do not mess up the oath.”

Chief Justice of the Supreme Court Richard Howe officiated. Jackie stood by my side, holding my brown leather Bible, upon which I would swear an oath of office five times over the next sixteen years. Justice Howe began: “I, Michael O. Leavitt.” I took a deep breath and in a strong voice designed to push away the tears welling in my eyes, I spoke, departing slightly from the script: “I, Michael Okerlund Leavitt, do solemnly swear...” The use of my middle name was an important tribute to my heritage and a way of honoring my maternal Okerlund grandparents. The oath went off without hitch. A dozen seconds to complete, and with that I was governor.

A number of impressions flood your mind during an occasion like this. You take in all the sights and sounds of such a grand assemblage. You’re aware, abstractedly, of the enormity of the moment. You’re vividly clear on what you need to do to execute it, and know that you must perform in a sense, but not overdo it.

I was aware that history would capture this moment, and that my actions should comport in a certain way. I clasped Jackie’s hand and we raised our other arms in a celebratory wave.

Amid the satisfaction of having achieved a high position and the excitement and grandeur of the event itself, there was a humorous flashback that kept me grounded. Standing on those marble stairs outside the Supreme Court chambers, my mind

raced back to my friend, Dan Eastman. We met twenty years earlier as aspiring professionals, and had become the closest of friends. He had called the night before to say he was driving down the road when the thought popped into his head: “Tomorrow, Mike Leavitt is going to be governor.” The idea of his buddy elevated in that manner struck him as hilarious. He had just burst out laughing.

The retelling had cracked me up as well when he told me, and it made me smile now. To some extent I felt the same way—I knew I was going to be governor, but the thought of it didn’t overwhelm me as much as it amused me. The absurdity of it deep down, that this had actually happened, gave me considerable mirth.

Then, as a twenty-one-gun salute shook the walls, I stepped forward to the podium for the inaugural address.

Inaugural speeches should be different than other speeches a political leader gives. They are personal expressions of vision, leadership, and values, and less about programs, strategy, or tactics. They are a place where a bit of moralizing is acceptable. In retrospect, my first inaugural, while sincere, was too long, included too many stories, and could have been stated with more efficiency. However, it firmly established the purposes of my service and expressed my view of government’s role.

“ I, Michael Okerlund Leavitt, do solemnly swear...“

The speech highlighted five objectives, which would carry on through all three of my terms as governor:

1) Improving Utah’s education system; 2) Building a stronger economy around higher-paying jobs; 3) Protecting our state’s quality of life;

4) Assuring that government did not grow faster than the private sector; and 5) Using government to reinforce and foster self-reliance and personal charity. It also affirmed my view that the federal government had become too large and dominant in

Bible used for swearing in.

1 Decorative pillar in the Utah State Capitol

2 Governor Norman Bangerter standing with Mike during the inauguration ceremony.

3 Presenting the flags of the United States of America and the State of Utah

4 Lt. Governor Olene and Myron Walker

5 Members of the Jay Welch Chorale performing on the rotunda stairs

1 Justice Richard C. Howe

2 State Treasurer Edward T. Alter

3 Attorney General Jan Graham

4 Mike and Jackie at the ceremonial swearing in 5 Mike giving his inaugural speech.

CAR ONE IS 10-41

the lives of Americans. “I believe governors of this nation will ultimately need to take a historic stand to demand discipline, sanity and a better balance in the federal system,” I told the gathering. “I intend to be part of that effort.”

To cap the speech off, I reached back to home and family, specifically the words of my mother, Anne Leavitt. She had written a note to congratulate me, and in it was a nugget of motherly advice. I read the note verbatim:

Dear Michael,

When you were a little boy and television had just come to our town, the show you never missed was Gunsmoke. Strangely, the part you liked the most occurred before the episode began. It was the part where Matt Dillon rode his horse up the ridge, paused, leaned forward on the saddle horn, and described the rigors of being a U.S. Marshall in Dodge City. In a perfect imitation, you used to gallop your stick horse though the house, stopping at appropriate intervals to declare in your deepest four-year old voice, “It’s a chancey job, and a little lonely.”

Well, here you are again, son… a chancey job, this time for real. But I have a strong sense of security knowing what you understand so well. That in this job, as in any other, even when you feel lonely, you really never need to be alone.

The following day, when I was by myself in the governor’s ceremonial office, I felt a distinct and familiar impression that my mother’s reminiscence was right—I need never be alone in that role.

After the inaugural ceremony, a reception was held in the Gold Room of the Capitol. It was a festive moment, but it was also very much something we wanted and needed. We felt profoundly indebted to so many people who had sustained us and helped us win. We knew nearly everyone who attended, more than a thousand people. We hugged or shook hands with each and celebrated for just a moment with all.

All the newly sworn state officers were in the line, and so it moved at a snail’s pace. I was getting increasingly uncomfortable having people wait. Necessity being the mother of invention, Jackie and I invented the reverse moving reception line. Rather than wait for people to travel to us, we grabbed the security team and said, “Follow us.” We began working our way up the reception line. The hand shaking, hugging, and celebrating continued, but at a much faster pace.

Mid-afternoon, we left the Capitol to officiate in further inaugural events, which would go on for an entire week. And in my first “official” trek down State Street, I had a new handle as well. Utah Highway Patrol Sgt. Alan Workman, who would be with me as part of my security detail for the entire period in office, handed me the UHP radio and said, “Tell them, ‘This is Car One, I’m 10-41.’” The car the governor is riding in, no matter what car it is, carries the law enforcement handle of “Car One,” he explained. A series of codes or shorthand must be memorized by every police officer for radio use. Each one starts with the number 10. Code 10-41 means, “I’m signing on duty.”

My thumb pressed the key. “This is Car One,” I said. “I’m 10-41.” And so I was. 10-41 for the next 3,961 days, three elections, and one turn of a century.

Entering the Capitol rotunda, Mike is being escorted by Adjutant General John L. Matthews. 23rd Army Band, Utah National Guard seen in the background.

A Campaign Flashback 02

How had we gotten here? Looking back, the campaign for governor almost felt surreal. Implausible in some ways at the outset, but eminently—and obviously—winnable.1

When I made the decision to run in March 1991, I had just turned forty. Family and friends comprised my base of support—my only support at that point. I had guided other candidates to victory before as a political consultant, but

had never run for office myself. There were more than a dozen better-known candidates making sounds about running. And when the first newspaper polls on the race came out, I was at the bottom of the candidate pack at one or two percent.

I was not thinking of running for public office until Senator Jake Garn called me just before Christmas in 1990 to say he would not be running for reelection. He urged me to run for his seat

1. A more detailed history of my first campaign can be found in the first book of this series, A Sense of Place and Purpose.

and promised to support me. A month earlier, on November 29, Governor Norm Bangerter had announced that he would not seek a third term. Two of Utah’s top political offices would be open seats in the 1992 election.

I seriously considered the Senate run, assessing it from all angles, before ruling it out. It just didn’t feel quite right. The governor’s race was nowhere in my equation—until one day, it was. A few weeks after the senate decision, I was talking with pollster Dan Jones, and he stunned me with a suggestion. “The person who really ought to run for governor is you,” he said.

The idea lingered in my mind and then took hold. It felt audacious and magnetic at the same time, and there was a deep sense of rightness about it. I felt a certainty to run and a rational belief that I could win. From that point on, I was essentially in.

We were victorious, of course. Eighteen months of hard work and worry, constant fundraising, impactful advertising and messaging, and a number of key decisions—some risky—combined to deliver the victory on November 3, 1992.

Into the Arena

Anyone running for office must first make an honest appraisal of whether they can win. Though I had never run before, there were several reasons I was viable.

First, I knew Utah’s political process and players from the inside out, having managed or chaired eight statewide campaigns in the previous fourteen years, including two major ballot initiatives. I was experienced with debates, speeches, public engagement, television interviews, town halls—and liked them. Being at one to two percent in the polls when I started did not worry me. Almost every successful candidate starts small and then becomes elevated through the process.

A second rationale was my appetite and aptitude for public policy. Through my service on the Utah Board of Regents and Southern Utah University’s Board of Trustees, as well as the Legislative Strategic Planning Committee for Public Education, I had developed serious ideas I wanted to

see implemented. The voter initiative campaigns I led helped me develop a working knowledge of the state budget and the way the system worked. I had come to believe I was pretty good at solving significant problems.

I also had noticed an interesting pattern regarding Utah’s gubernatorial races. None of the past four governors had ever held statewide office before. All of them came from the business community, had backgrounds outside Salt Lake City, and were not widely known when they started.

Starting out, one of my most significant deficiencies was that I did not have a political base, and in order to make it through the caucuses, conventions, and into the primary election, I needed one.

The business community, rural Utah, and educators were all possibilities, given my background and professional experience. But it was state legislators I targeted—and who ultimately became a solid base and formidable advantage.

Early on, I undertook an aggressive schedule of visiting House and Senate members, traveling the state to talk with them individually and help them get to know me. Month after month, and under the radar of other prospective candidates, I developed relationships, giving them the time to make up their minds. Initially, my goal was to gain the support of one-third of all GOP legislators. By the fall of 1991, I had pledges of support from all but two.

“ The person who really ought to run for governor is you.“

Money was another key consideration in the early days—and an ongoing challenge for the duration of the campaign. Financing the campaign of any first-time candidate is not unlike raising money for a start-up business; most of the money is raised by personal appeal of the candidate or entrepreneur, and both look initially to friends and family.

I leaned heavily on our family businesses, borrowing $20,000 from the Leavitt Group to

get started. I also turned to each of the Leavitt Group agencies, and to other insurance companies as well. Were it not for early money like that, starting a statewide campaign would have been extremely difficult.

A campaign memo from October 1991 laid out my finance plan, which had three basic categories of fundraising: large donors, a finance committee, and direct mail. The large donor plan was straightforward—find 150 people capable of giving $1,000 or more, and I would call on each of those people personally. For the finance committee, we planned to recruit people in every county for the committee, asking them to nominate potential donors that the campaign would further cultivate with letters and mail. Our direct mail plan involved sending letters over a rolling period of time asking people interested in the campaign to donate.

“ Bring quality jobs and quality education to Utah.“

The memo set our goal at $400,000 by February 1992, but we fell short. It took us until the June convention to raise the first $400,000. However, we raised more than our competitors and spent it wisely. I would estimate 65 percent of the $1.8 million raised during the entire campaign was raised by me personally. There is no other way unless a candidate self-funds their campaign.

Up to that point, I had a regular traveling aide-intern, but no staff. Nolan Karras, a good friend and former Utah House speaker, was chairing the campaign, and my friend and former consulting partner, Bud Scruggs, headed my strategy committee. Rob Glazier, one of Bud’s students at BYU, came on as manager, along with KayLin Loveland as scheduler and office manager. And in one of the most important decisions I made, I asked LaVarr Webb, former political editor and later managing editor of the Deseret News, to join the campaign. He agreed, bringing enormous talent, leadership, and intellectual power to the endeavor. As 1991 gave way to election year 1992, we were rolling.

Election Season

On January 7–8, 1992, we kicked off the campaign with a news conference at our house on Laird Avenue and a twenty-four-stop tour of the state. I announced my candidacy, promising to “bring quality jobs and quality education to Utah.”

By candidate filing day, April 15, 1992, the field was set: Democrats Pat Shea and Stewart Hanson Jr.; Independent Merrill Cook; and five Republicans—me, Richard Eyre, Mike Stewart, Dixie Minson, and Dub Richards.

Eyre, a well-known Utah consultant, public speaker, and author of several best-selling books on family life, was my greatest threat for the Republican nomination. Education issues became a key distinguisher between us through the party caucuses, county and state conventions, and into the primary election.

The Eyre campaign centered on a school voucher system, which played well among his more conservative constituency in the GOP. Under Rick’s plan, parents would be given a government-issued voucher for $1,000 to go toward the child’s education at a school of their choice—public or private. Rick believed it would encourage free-market competition among schools.

I believed wholeheartedly in markets and considered public education to be a monopoly in need of a challenge. However, my plan to inject market forces into public education centered on charter schools, which provided choice to parents without reallocating existing public-school funding and subsidizing wealthier families with children at high-priced private schools.

My education plan borrowed heavily from the state strategic plan I had worked on the previous four years and centered on competency-based education, local control of schools, and the use of new technologies in the classroom.

Competency-based advancement and technology enablement in education were introduced in the first campaign and remained primary themes throughout my time as governor.

In the campaign, my position on education and work on the education strategic plan were central to gaining the endorsement of the Utah Education Association, a step critical to getting me through the state convention. The UEA was never going to endorse Rick Eyre, but I had to head off an endorse ment of the next strongest candidate in the race, Mike Stewart. Stewart was a former history profes sor with a PhD in constitutional law who was will ing to say he would raise taxes for education—a key UEA goal. I would not make that pledge.

The endorsement came to me in the end, and it was a turning point. We achieved it after a stee ley-eyed conversation with UEA leadership, fol lowed by one-on-one meetings with all twenty members of the union’s political committee. I would not hedge on taxes; instead I urged UEA leaders to look beyond the pledge to the longer game. Mike Stewart couldn’t beat Rick Eyre, but I could. If they pledged their support to Stewart on the strength of his tax pledge, they would end up fighting Rick Eyre for the next eight years.

The endorsement gave me significant advantage. More than nine percent of the delegates at the state convention elected at the party caucuses were educators.

Two days before the caucuses, we received more positive news. The Deseret News reported on April 25, 1992, that I had pulled ahead of Eyre in the polls, leading 34 percent to 24 percent among all respondents, regardless of party. Among Republicans, I had a two-point lead over Eyre. I never again trailed in public opinion polls throughout the primary and general election.

The state convention, three months later in June, brought a stumble, but not a setback. It also required two more strategic campaign decisions that made a substantive difference in the successful outcome of the campaign.

One was the selection of Olene Walker as my running mate. Olene had served for eight years in the legislature, including time as the Utah House majority whip. She grew up in Ogden and had earned a bachelor’s degree in political science

from Brigham Young University, a master’s degree in political theory from Stanford, and a PhD from the University of Utah. After the legislature, she directed the state Division of Community Development and was vice president of Country Crisp Foods. She was a terrific pick and a valued partner who worked side by side with me for the next eleven-and-a-half years.

The other critical decision was whether to draw on personal savings to buy advertising, which would boost my momentum and standing in the polls in the immediate post-convention period heading into the primary.

Jackie and I ended up loaning $20,000 to the campaign—money we had saved up to buy a new car. In addition, $20,000 was borrowed from the Leavitt Group. The campaign spent all of it on billboards and radio advertising. It was enough to sustain a noticeable showing for three weeks of advertising at a level we believed could break through. It was a big bet, and had I not survived the convention, it would have been a total loss.

Indeed, I survived the convention, although it was not my campaign’s finest hour. The convention was a two-day event on June 27–28. On the first night, an ultra-right group circulated a nasty, negative tabloid about me containing groundless assertions about my ideology. My campaign protested to the party chairman, who declined to do anything about it.

The next day, my candidate presentation was lackluster. We had a group of student performers from Southern Utah State College, whose act was a bit amateurish. Then I mixed up my speech pages on the podium and had to awkwardly lapse into my stump speech.

By the time voting started, I felt deflated and disappointed, sensing a letdown in our momentum and, conceivably, diminished chances of coming out of the convention. It was one of the hardest moments of the entire process. Eyre took first place, and we were second. We had lost our lead by thirty-eight delegate votes—enough to propel us into the primary, but still a bitter disappointment.

The Primary

We had to project the look, feel, and trajectory of a winner. And we did it with a shakeup in our advertising strategy; a creative genius named Chuck Sellier; and our most memorable television ad.

Based on a gut reaction—and a proposal and compelling vision laid out by Chuck on how to reach voters at the level of their values through storytelling—I brought Chuck on board to create our television spots. It cost us our relationship with our existing advertising agency, R&R Partners, but Chuck Sellier became one of the most important people involved in my political success.

His first ad for us became the “Real and Right” tractor ad, based on my grandfather’s story about a farmer down the road who had more land than he could afford. It was a remarkably beautiful piece of work, and a brilliant way of introducing me. Without stating it blatantly, the ad spoke of my values, my family, and what was important to me.

Other ads followed. To counter Rick Eyre’s charge that I was captive to the UEA, we produced an ad about rewarding good teachers and firing

bad ones. The public loved it; teachers hated it. We also did an ad that emphasized the need to provide quality jobs so that our children wouldn’t have to look outside the state for work.

Real and right; reward good teachers, fire bad ones; and quality jobs—those were the three messages we used for the primary election.

I had already decided coming out of the state convention not to attack Eyre or Cook, despite the risk involved in not negatively defining them before they attempted to define me. We remained positive in tone and messaging, even when opponents lashed out or made themselves look bad by their behavior or tactics. As the frontrunner heading into the primary, I increasingly came under fire.

Rick Eyre regularly leveled condescending barbs that I was young and lacked substance on issues, while Merrill Cook attempted to make a big deal of the whirling disease outbreak found in fish at the family’s hatchery business in Loa. I maintained composure in the face of attacks, and the personality differences on display only bolstered my momentum.

Just before the primary election, Governor Bangerter endorsed me. Senator Jake Garn had publicly announced his support of me earlier in the summer, and the two endorsements were impactful, since sitting officeholders rarely take sides in their party’s primary. Bangerter’s endorsement particularly antagonized the Eyre camp, which then tried to capitalize by claiming I was the establishment candidate and Norm’s handpicked successor.

In the final days before the primary, the candidates’ respective positions on issues had been clearly formulated. My belief in federalism became prominent as I spoke of Utah needing greater flexibility from the federal government in providing welfare and other services. I also spoke of wanting to lead the nation’s governors in a crusade to restore the proper balance between state and federal governments. My five campaign themes—quality jobs, quality education, quality of life, fostering self-reliance, and limited government—had been regularly conveyed and would continue through the general election.

1 Mike, Olene Walker, and Jake Garn on the campaign trail. Logan, Utah

2-4 On the campaign trail

5 Working with R&R Partners advertising agency on campaign ideas.

6 Filming our first commercial at Laird Park. We gathered friends from the neighborhood to serve as extras.

7 Leavitt family hits the trail to do some campaigning.

On the ideological spectrum, there were obvious delineations as well. I was center-right, Eyre was to my right and favored by a more conservative element, and Cook cast himself as a populist anti-establishment type in the Libertarian mold.

On Tuesday, September 8, primary day, my name appeared for the first time on a statewide election ballot. We had maintained a substantial lead in tracking polls for weeks on end, and by 10:00 p.m. that night the outcome was clearly established. More than 46 percent of registered voters had cast a ballot. Olene and I won 56 percent of the vote, compared to 44 percent for Eyre and his running mate Steve Densley.

The biggest surprise of the night was on the Democratic side. The more liberal Stewart Hanson Jr. beat moderate, pro-life attorney Pat Shea for the Democrat nomination. Though Hanson was behind in the polls, the pro-choice community had turned out in massive numbers to push him over the finish line.

With the primary election over, I would face off with Merrill Cook and Stewart Hanson in the general election.

General Election

Pat Shea likely would have appealed to middleof-the-road voters in the general election, drawing some of that support from me, but now he was out of the race. With a more left-leaning Stewart Hanson as the Democrats’ nominee, I began to view Merrill Cook as my main opponent. A Deseret News poll taken before the primary, but released five days afterward, indicated as much. That first general election snapshot had me at 44 percent; Cook at 26 percent; and Hanson at 17 percent.1

Utah is a Republican state, and people intuitively presumed that I would win. However, with just fifty-three days to go, and my opponents behind and running out of time, it was clear that both would train the focus of their attacks on me.

Our strategy had four imperatives: First, we needed to consolidate the Republican party and bring Eyre and his supporters over to my side. If they moved toward Cook, victory was not automatic. The second imperative was to raise the money required to fuel a solid campaign. Third, because our opponents had every reason to gang up on me, we had to control the agenda by raising new issues and ideas. Finally, we had to avoid mistakes. Bad decisions on how we responded to attacks could hurt us; likewise, becoming too aggressive could backfire as well.

National politics also were a significant variable; Utah’s governor’s race was directly impacted by the presidential race. Ross Perot, a wealthy businessman from Texas, had formed an Independent Party, qualifying on the ballot in all fifty states. His politics bridged the gap between Republican and Democrat ideologies, appealing to the conservatives and moderates who were skeptical of the establishment. Merrill Cook was running within this surge of independent zeitgeist, and Perot’s race gave him a template. Perot had started out nearly even with Republican President George H.W. Bush and Democrat Governor Bill Clinton in early polling conducted in February 1992. By June, he was the frontrunner, with 39 percent to Bush’s 31 percent and Clinton’s 25 percent. The existence of Perot’s campaign allowed Cook to harness the energy of the national effort, using many of the same volunteers. It was the perfect atmosphere for a thirdparty effort.

Merrill Cook saw an opportunity to attack when health care reform surfaced as an issue in the presidential election and trickled down to state campaigns. I had not spent much time thinking about it, but Cook pounced at one of the debates, blasting me for being part of the insurance industry—therefore part of the problem—and for having no solution or plan. He proposed using the state’s worker compensation fund as a pooling mechanism for health insurance for the state’s uninsured, which was not a bad idea. But then he also proposed a payor-play system where small businesses could either buy private health insurance for employees or pay up to five percent of payroll into the state fund for

1. Bob Bernick Jr., “Republicans Hold Healthy Leads over Major Foes,” Deseret News, 13 September 1992. https://www.deseret. com/1992/9/13/19004487/republicans-hold-healthy-leads-over-major-foes

employee insurance. I knew this part of Cook’s solution was problematic, but because I didn’t have a solution of my own, I couldn’t counter it.

I dug into the issue with assistance from several health policy experts. The position we carved out acknowledged the problem and listed a series of policy reforms, and I committed to initiate a process to look at the big picture. Many of the reforms I recommended were enacted in my administration as part of Utah Healthprint, which I initiated during my first two years in office.

Cook continued his aggressive posture, running attack ads contending that I couldn’t fund my education reform package without raising taxes, that I was beholden to the health insurance industry because of campaign donations, and that I was a political crony who had been selected by the Republican Party to stop Cook’s tax-cutting initiative in 1988. We responded with an ad saying that despite the attacks, we would not go negative but would continue highlighting our “real and right” initiatives.

A little more than three weeks from the election, however, we had a major scare when our daily tracking polls, conducted by Dan Jones, began showing downward movement for me and an upward trend for Cook. The trend persisted over successive days, and within a week or so, our lead had shrunk from more than a dozen percentage points down to five or six. The numbers were deeply unsettling. Emergency meetings were held, and our strategy team was divided over whether the surveys were an unexplainable anomaly or a true measure of an upswing for Merrill, for which we would need to counterattack. The campaign team of Senate candidate Bob Bennett, who were also conducting tracking surveys, shared their results with us, showing I was still ahead. But we were uncertain of the poll’s reliability. My spirits sunk. It felt as if the atmosphere of discontent Cook had tried to foster with his Independent candidacy was taking root in the final weeks of the campaign, and we were slipping uncontrollably toward a loss. For me, it was the lowest point of the campaign.

Finally, Dan Jones suggested we get a different pollster to conduct a brushfire survey. I called

a friend of mine, Todd Remington, who had a polling company in California. Within days we had his results. They were consistent with the Bennett poll, so we were indeed ahead. Dan Jones never determined what happened, but our campaign’s restraint in holding back a counterattack or making brash decisions served us well.

Two days away from the election, a Deseret News/KSL-TV poll showed me nine percentage points ahead of Cook.

Money was flowing easier by this stage in the game. Many people waited to see how the race developed before they committed their contributions. We had seen a boost just after the primary, then a leveling. In the final week before the election, a wave of “smart money” came rolling into the campaign.

In all, we had raised $1.8 million over the eighteen months of the campaign. The final pre-election finance report on October 28 indicated that we had spent $1.3 million on the race. Of that amount, I loaned $60,000 to my campaign. Merrill Cook had spent nearly $700,000. Eighty-two percent of that, or $574,000, came from Cook himself. The rest was made up of smaller donations ranging from $5 to $100. Stewart Hanson had spent nearly $400,000, with the bulk of his financial support coming from labor unions. I had received donations from nearly every interest group except unions.

I continued to collect endorsements as election day neared, including Richard Eyre on October 22, and sixteen prominent Democrats who announced their endorsement on November 1. The weekend before the election, my campaign distributed literature to 400,000 households. We had the phone lines running hot with calls encouraging people to vote. And we had increased our media buy in the final two weeks.

On election day, I looked back on the past year and a half. It had been long and difficult, but also empowering. The experience of listening to, and really hearing, all manner of Utahns in thousands of visits and meetings in cities and towns across the state had refined me. I felt like a different person from the one that had started down the path eighteen months before.

As voting continued throughout the day, I stayed away from campaign headquarters, spending time calling key supporters and inviting people to the election night gathering at the Little America Hotel in Salt Lake City. Jackie and I assembled the kids and headed down to the hotel about 7:00 p.m. Within two hours of the polls closing, it was clear that I would be the fourteenth governor of Utah. The results were Leavitt, 42 percent; Cook, 34 percent; and Hanson, 23 percent.

The scene was exuberant in the hotel ballroom. Family, friends, and supporters shared the

jubilation. Everyone who was a part of the Leavitt campaign celebrated, and the first indicator of change became evident when a security detail from the Utah Highway Patrol formed up around me as soon as the outcome appeared certain.

I barely slept that night, but it didn’t matter. The next morning could not come soon enough; everything felt new and incredibly exciting. The adrenaline rush car ried over into daylight, along with a sense of purpose and a bit of impatience. I had a meeting with the cam paign staff first thing that morning to start moving forward with the transition and to prepare for the inauguration, which was exactly two months away. We had won the day and were eager to get on with the term.

Courtesy of The Salt Lake Tribune

1-5 Election night celebration

Transition 03

Waking up governor-elect was exhilarating. We had to formulate an agenda, plan an inauguration, review department heads, appoint staff, wind down the campaign, and much more. It was a dizzying list of obligations. But compared to the pressure of the campaign, it felt positively sublime.

Once a new governor is elected, the action— and the spotlight—clearly moves to them. Everybody is interested in the future, not the past. All governors get their turns as the exciting new face and the departing old hand, and it was important to me not to intrude upon Norm Bangerter’s final weeks. At the same time, however, I wanted a quick start to begin framing the construct of the new administration.

Two days after the election, with lieutenant governor-elect Olene Walker at my side, I held a press conference to announce the next steps in the transition. I also announced that I would begin appointing new department heads by month’s end, reiterating my intent to give state government the freshness that comes with a change in administrations.

“This is a new administration. This is the Leavitt-Walker administration. There will be new faces, new directors, and new priorities,” I told reporters. Additionally, I promised a different management style from the Bangerter administration. “After the first one hundred days, there will be no question in anybody’s minds about the difference between Mike Leavitt and Norm Bangerter. I think we’re in for an exciting four years.”

Such change is always necessary, I explained, because government cannot renew itself. “That’s why we have elections.”1

New Faces, New Priorities

Though it was a frenetic pace, we had gotten a little bit of a head start. A month before the election, I had asked Nolan Karras to head up a transition team, and he produced a remarkably detailed plan that laid out, step by step, the decisions we needed to make. Among the first recommendations was the early selection of a chief of staff, and there was a list for that, too.

One of the names that stood out to me was Charlie Johnson, Governor Bangerter’s budget director. I offered the position to Charlie in late October, and he accepted, although he could not be freed from his responsibilities in the Bangerter administration until he finished the state budget in mid-December.

Toward the end of election week, Jackie and I took a breather. We made a quick getaway with the children to San Juan Capistrano, California, to reassure the kids that despite this major development in our lives, we were still a family. We stayed for a few days in a beach house made available by Larry Lunt, a personal friend.

The trip to California was the first time we had traveled with a security detail—a strange new reality. The highway patrol officers and I were uncertain how to handle some things. Did they really need to spend the night parked outside the house? If I wanted to go for a walk, did they have to follow and if so, how close? What degree of confidentiality could we count on? Did we need to factor their presence into conversations, or were they reliable enough to keep family things private? What exactly were their duties? Soon enough, these basic questions were answered and life with a security presence became routine.

Thankfully, Jackie and I were able to go for long walks along Capistrano Beach, where our conversations were mostly focused on how we should deal with this new family dynamic.

Our first major decision was whether we should live in the Governor’s Mansion. We had moved into our home on Laird Avenue almost fourteen years before the election. For Jackie, the prospect of leaving it felt like an abandonment of warmth, privacy, security, and peace. The Governor’s Mansion viewed from afar seemed cold, publicly exposed, and disruptive. To me, it felt adventurous, interesting, and new. Our children were quite conflicted. They sensed the adventure but also intuited a degree of change and undefined social costs. They asked where they would attend school and church and how their friendships would be affected.

We reached an important compromise: We would keep our home on Laird but rent it out; we would move to the Governor’s Mansion, but the children would stay in the same schools; and our family would attend church at the same Latter-day Saints ward.

When we returned from California, we felt more prepared to deal with the changes coming our way. Jackie called First Lady Colleen Bangerter and arranged to spend time walking through the mansion to size up the task ahead of her. I turned back to the dizzying list.

Along with the transition demands, I had been invited to the National Governors Association’s seminar for new governors in Colorado Springs, Colorado, in mid-November. Right on its heels were meetings of the Republican Governors Association in Wisconsin and the Western Governors’ Association in Las Vegas.

UVCC Vote

Additionally, there was a critical piece of business left in my tenure on the State Board of Regents—a vote on changing the status of Utah Valley Community College—looming very quickly.

During the campaign, the question of granting four-year status to Utah Valley Community College (UVCC) had become a controversial issue. It divided the higher education community, including the Board of Regents. I had not resigned as a regent

1. Lisa Riley Roche, “Leavitt Pledges a Quick Start and Fresh Style as Governor,” Deseret News, 5 November 1992, https://www.deseret. com/1992/11/5/19014388/leavitt-pledges-a-quick-start-and-fresh-style-as-governor

1 Governor’s Mansion

2 Night view of the Utah State Capitol.

3 Family photo taken at the Laird home after winning the election.

while running for governor, reasoning that if I lost, I could continue serving out the four remaining years of my term on the board.

The regents had put off dealing with UVCC’s request until after the election due to the political sensitivity. It was clear to me the vote was going to be close. In fact, I thought there was a good chance that without my vote, the vote would be tied and the measure would die. I had already decided that Utah County needed a public, four-year teaching college. Brigham Young University was limiting enrollment and making it nearly impossible for most in-state students to gain admission. And it was simply not feasible for students from the fastest-growing region of the state to depend on the University of Utah, located more than forty miles away.

Few people knew if I would attend the meeting, which was held November 10, one week after the election. I had been deliberately vague in order to keep people from pressuring me. When I walked in the door, it created quite a stir. As I recall, I said very little, conscious of my new status as governor-elect, but cast the deciding vote to allow the college to offer three bachelor’s degrees on a trial basis. I took a little heat over it from critics of the policy, but the passage of time has clearly shown it was the right thing to do. The three initial bachelor’s degrees offered were business management, computer science and information systems, and technology management. One year later, UVCC’s name was changed to Utah Valley State College, and in 2008 it became Utah Valley University.2

Transition and Staff Building

Work on the transition was moving forward. Nolan Karras and his team had appointed a series of sub-teams charged with making overviews of each department of state government. I had wanted many teams like this for two reasons. First, taking even a cursory look at an entire state government involved an enormous amount of work, and second, I wanted everyone who had played a significant role in getting me elected to feel part of the victory.

Co-chairs led each of the teams, who were tasked to interview each department’s leadership, inventory the major challenges they faced, and make recommendations on any organizational changes we wanted to undertake during the first legislative session. Those reports needed to be integrated with commitments I had made during the election so that an agenda could be finalized. The timeframe for compilation of reports was three to six weeks.

During the second week following the election, we moved into a small suite of offices, which Governor Bangerter had provided for us on the first floor of the State Office Building. We also needed staff, but there was virtually no money available for transition salaries.

Charlie Johnson, who was tied up with the budget, did double duty with the transition when he could. LaVarr Webb kept the gaps filled, as he always did, and we divided the rest of the campaign staff into two groups: One to plan the inauguration and the other to help with the transition. I assured the campaign staff that an opportunity would be available in state government at some point in the near future. But there were two positions I knew we needed to fill quickly—a media spokesperson and a personal assistant.

I already knew who I wanted as my spokesperson. Vicki Varela and I had worked together on the Board of Regents and on three referendum

Leavitt Home on Laird Avenue

campaigns during the previous four years. She was talented, experienced, and I enjoyed working with her. A few days after the election, I called to open the conversation. She was interested but not sure. It took several days of conversations and working through some important employment arrangements, but she finally agreed.

The job of assistant was filled after a fortuitous call from my father. He told me that a former employee of his in Cedar City, Alayne Peterson, had talked with him recently about moving back to Utah after a number of years living in Texas. It had been years since I had seen Alayne, but I remembered her as able and fun. She had helped on my

father’s own campaign for governor in 1976 for a short time before moving to Texas.

Alayne and I talked over the phone, and I invited her to come to Salt Lake so we could discuss the job face-to-face. Then I had a better idea to save time and money. Sensing that it was a great fit, I offered her the job over the phone.

LaVarr Webb’s leadership throughout the campaign had been exemplary, and I considered him as a potential chief of staff. Ultimately, I concluded the administration needed LaVarr in a position where his mastery of strategy, concepts, words, and ideas would be foremost, while Charlie could focus

Utah State Capitol Rotunda

on operations. LaVarr remained by my side as an invaluable policy advisor and trusted friend.

Our transition committee reports started coming back. Each one had a series of recommendations for the new leadership of the department. In many cases, we also asked the transition committee to provide me with names of prospects for department heads. Every few days we made appointments of new personnel—each one a building block for a new administration.

There were a couple of important things we did in developing the administration. First, in choosing my cabinet, not a single person was asked if he or she was Republican or Democrat. I hired people I

thought were competent and on whose loyalty I felt I could rely. Second, I hired mature and seasoned people. There is a tendency in building government administrations to fill them with people who got there politically. We hired many young people who had helped on the campaign, but those who served in the most senior positions of my administration were experienced people with track records of success.

On November 25, I announced I would appoint four deputy governors, one of whom would be Mayor Joe Jenkins of Provo. We needed to make the announcement in a timely way so that Joe could resign as mayor and be ready by inauguration day in early January.

Then, a few weeks later, the plan shifted. Instead of deputy governor, we changed Joe’s assignment and asked him to head up the Department of Community and Economic Development. We also dispensed with the title of “deputy governor,” going instead with a slight variation of the terminology—for example, deputy for policy or deputy for intergovernmental affairs. That kind of decision was important because it helped to empower members of the staff and began to define portfolios of responsibility.

Our first staff meeting was held on November 28. Our discussion centered on the appointments of department heads. The first two were announced shortly thereafter: Ted Stewart was named director of the Department of Natural Resources, and Raylene Ireland was announced as director of Administrative Services.

I felt the need, too, to begin reaching out to state employees. We organized meetings with the division directors of each department. Each time I have taken over a large organization, I have found it important to spend time getting to know the employees in groups of fifteen to twenty. After these meetings, I then hold a larger meeting with all employees—a pattern that evolved when I became governor. I’ve refined it over the years but generally found it to be an important and effective way of connecting with a lot of people.

In the small meetings it is important to say only a little at the beginning and to ask each person to tell me about themselves. Almost always the sessions reveal things colleagues in the same office didn’t know about each other, so there is an element of discovery. It soon becomes evident to them that the purpose of the discussion is to learn more about each other as people, not laying out policy and procedures.

I don’t introduce myself formally, but as people talk about their lives, I share bits and pieces of my own story. By the time we get to the end of an hour or so, I’ve told them a lot about me in pieces but always in a context of relating to their lives.

There are significant benefits to this approach. First, chemistry is important, and you leave knowing some people a bit better and having a story to help you remember them. Second, they leave knowing more about you as a person and understand that you value them as a person, not just as a functionary in an organization. Lastly, every detail about the conversation spreads like wildfire throughout the organization. The details aren’t as important as the firsthand reports on what the new guy is like.

New Governors Seminar

One of the most valuable experiences I had while preparing to take office came with my introduction to the National Governors Association, an organization I would become heavily involved with in subsequent years. The NGA holds a seminar for new governors every other year, where veteran governors share their experience and advice with incoming governors.

The “class of 1992” included a handful of newly elected governors like myself, plus others who had already taken office but had not attended before. Among the presenters was Governor John Engler of Michigan, who had been elected two years earlier. I spent considerable time talking with Engler. He had been in the news frequently because the Michigan Legislature, in a hostile act toward him, had repealed the property tax, throwing the state’s tax system into chaos. Rather than vetoing the bill, as legislators assumed he would, John embraced the idea as an opportunity and forced a reform on the tax system. He became a hero among conservatives.

Being so newly minted and green, I didn’t feel anywhere near the same stature as Engler, or even the longer-term sitting governors who were in attendance. I felt like a minor leaguer just being called up to the majors.

Sessions were frank and comprehensive, ranging from expectations and ethics to staffing and balancing family and work time. Spouses were included in their own sessions. What made the seminar most unique was the complete absence of partisanship. I was not sure which party several of the instructor governors belonged to.

Perhaps the most lasting thing to come from that three-day conference was the relationships it fostered. Over the years, I worked with the governors I met there in different ways, and genuine friendships developed.

Afterward, Jackie and I, along with our team, flew to Wisconsin to attend the Republican Governors Association meeting. We had immediate staffing needs addressed and transition work well under way. Still, I was filled with anticipation to get back to Utah and to keep pressing forward. I had so much to do, and a narrowing window of time before inauguration day.

Media Brushfire

In early December, we had our first mini crisis with the news media. I had asked Doug Bodrero, head of the Department of Public Safety, to develop a method of conducting background checks on candidates for key positions. He recommended we use a form used by law enforcement agencies to screen new police applicants. I looked at it quickly

and approved it. Doing a background check seemed like a good idea, and I didn’t want to reinvent the process.

Several days after the first forms went out, the Deseret News reported I was asking candidates to disclose if they drank alcohol and what prescription drugs they used. The questions were clearly on the form, and although it was an appropriate inquiry for a position in law enforcement, given the religious sensitivity the use of alcohol had among members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, our use of it was interpreted as a religious litmus test.

Every major news organization pounced and ignited a brushfire. Kathryn Kendall, staff attorney for the Utah chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union, said of the form, “Is it legal? Yes. Is it moral? No. Asking questions about personal background … smacks to me of an ideological litmus test. The governor is precluding diversity.” Kendall went on to say that the form suggested to other employers, “it’s okay to invade the privacy of workers under the pretense of deciding who’s going to do a good job.” 3

3. Lisa Riley Roche, “Leavitt Appointees Subject to Detailed Background Checks,” Deseret News, 5 December 1992, https://www.deseret. com/1992/12/5/19019791/leavitt-appointees-subject-to-detailed-background-checks

LaVarr Webb and I were in Las Vegas at Western Governors’ Association meetings when the story broke. LaVarr attempted to tamp down the accusations of heavy-handedness by saying, “We do want to maintain a high ethical standard and we want to make sure employees don’t have anything in their backgrounds that will cause embarrassment.” 4

The reporter then spoke with Charlie Johnson. He was asked if Governor Bangerter conducted investigations on potential appointees. Charlie replied that Bangerter interviewed candidates to determine if there were any potential problems rather than asking them to undergo background checks.

Amid the tumult, I was leaving the Salt Lake Hilton one day following a speech and was surrounded by media. All they wanted to ask about was the questionnaire. I said, “I’m taking responsibility for this. I’m not dodging the fact that the questionnaire was inappropriate. I was horrified like everyone else.” I acknowledged I hadn’t read the form closely enough, and I told them the form would be replaced.

It was an important first test. I needed to show the media I would deal directly with them and take responsibility. In addition, we learned a good lesson about the need to run a tighter ship to avoid giving multiple messages to reporters.

Countdown to the Inauguration

During the last couple weeks of the transition, we began to frame policy positions on three important controversies that continued throughout my entire first term as governor. The first was whether the state would continue to support appeals on a lawsuit challenging Utah’s abortion law. The second was litigation related to Utah’s system of child protective services. The third involved Utah’s willingness, or lack thereof, to store high-level nuclear waste. It is important to note how quickly a new governor is put into a position to make lasting and important policy decisions.

As the holidays approached, Jackie and I knew this might be the last Christmas we would have in our home on Laird. While that didn’t turn out to be true, the thought made that year especially significant. Our children were young and about to experience great change in their lives.

On December 30, The Salt Lake Tribune reported the appointment of six more department directors: Bob Wilcox, Insurance; Connie White, Commerce; Dianne Nielson, Environmental Quality; Cary Peterson, Agriculture; Ed Leary, Financial Institutions; and Joe Jenkins, Community and Economic Development. I also named Lynne Ward as my budget director.

I had earlier announced the appointment of Lane McCotter as director of the Department of Corrections, and the reappointment of Doug Bodrero, staying on as director of Public Safety. With Ted Stewart and Raylene Ireland named weeks earlier, I had eleven members of the cabinet lined up and ready to go.

Just before New Year’s, the Bangerters invited Jackie and me to accompany them to the Copper Bowl to watch the University of Utah football team in action. We traveled to Tucson, Arizona, together in the state plane. The trip was a nice way to reconcile the changeover for both of us. I took care to remain a secondary figure and to respect Bangerter’s stature as governor, if just for a few more days.

4. Lisa Riley Roche, “Background Check on Leavitt Staff Sought,” Deseret News, 4 December 1992, https://www.deseret.com/ 1992/12/4/19019631/background-check-on-leavitt-staff-sought

View of Utah State Capitol from Memory Grove - Fall colors - Matt Morgan, Courtesy of Utah Tourism

State Capitol, Room 200 04

Walking into the Utah Governor’s Office the day after the inauguration was among the most exhilarating moments of my life. Equal parts excitement, gratitude, satisfaction, responsibility, resolve, and confidence—tempered by a dash of fear. Everything was new and interesting, and it felt as important as it was. The weight settled quickly on our new team’s shoulders, but we loved the way that felt.

In 1993, the Governor’s Office was tucked in the southwest corner of the main floor of the Capitol, just off the rotunda. The entrance consisted of two side-by-side doors, a nondescript adjoining door, and a bronze plaque. Inside, a visitor would be greeted in a small, poorly lit, windowless waiting area. If there was a chief executive steering the great ship of the state within, it was hard to ascertain by the exterior. We later improved the arrival experience by opening it up; a new glass wall

Utah State Capitol Rotunda

partitioned off the entire west end of the floor into an open foyer, making a more expansive, welcoming entryway. It has since reverted back to the earlier look, with the glass removed and the layout contained again behind the doors. As with governors themselves, things change.

Inside the Governor’s Suite, a hallway ran east to west, linking five separate offices with windows that faced south, overlooking downtown Salt Lake. Down the hall in the other direction was the actual Governor’s Office—two offices to be exact: a big, handsomely-appointed ceremonial office and a smaller, cozier working office behind it. A door from the private office led to the Governor’s Board Room, which served additional roles as a public meeting space and a cabinet meeting room. The next door over from the board room was a similar suite of offices for the lieutenant governor. One floor down, the Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget occupied a larger footprint below us.

The Capitol was a wonderful place to work, but there was one change I resolved early on to make. As a twelve-year-old boy I started spending time at the legislative session with my father, who represented southern Utah first in the House of Representatives and then in the State Senate. I tired quickly of listening to legislative debate, so I would explore the building—floor after intriguing floor of chambers, galleries, lounges, offices, hallways, and exhibits. Inexplicable to me was the shuttering and non-use of the Gold Room on the main floor. It was the most beautiful of rooms, undoubtedly a labor of love and sacrifice for people eking out a living during the Capitol’s construction. The Gold Room had fallen under the control of historians and preservationists whose idea of reverence was to hide it under drapes and dust. The placed smelled bad and looked lifeless. Gold stanchions and ropes limited Capitol visitors to a peek through the door, and the ladies who gave tours scolded anyone who leaned too far over the top of the ropes to get a full view of the room’s previous grandeur.

During my first week in office, I asked Neal Stowe, head of the Division of Facilities, Construction, and Management, to meet me in my office, and we took a little stroll to the Gold Room. Once there,

I moved the rope aside—no tour guides in sight— and said, “I want to liberate the Gold Room. I want to clean it up, renovate it, and then use it, a lot.” He got the picture and, gratefully, so did the historical preservation people. Operation Reclamation commenced.

Within a few months the job of cleaning and rejuvenating the room was done. A door between the governor’s staff office area and the Gold Room was reactivated after decades of no use. Light and sound poured in, and the place sprang to life. From that point forward, we proudly used this spacious and enduring place to greet important visitors of the state, and to hold meetings, news conferences and ceremonies.

There were many pictures taken in the Gold Room, but the place where I probably had the most pictures taken was in the Governor’s Office. I loved working there. I used the ceremonial office for meetings, and the big desk there only for formal signings. I would sit at the desk, with interested parties surrounding me. Such gatherings almost always included pictures to commemorate the event. I’m confident more than ten thousand pictures were taken with me sitting in that chair. And we regularly strove to send a personalized print of the occasion to the people involved.

With so much picture taking, I quickly discovered that the camera flashes were a problem. They left lingering spots and occasionally gave me headaches. A solution, however, was right in front of me.

“ I want to liberate the Gold Room. I want to clean it up, renovate it, and then use it, a lot.“

There was a large painting on the opposite wall of what looked like Monument Valley. Nobody knew of a place exactly like the one depicted, so we

Utah State Capitol Gold Room

concluded that, while artfully done, it was not an actual place. But there was a sun in the picture, and I found that if I simply stared at that sun, the flashes didn’t bother me. It formed a metaphor in my mind about staying focused on a priority rather than allowing routine interruptions to become blinding disruptions. I think of the painting often when I’m having pictures taken, even to this day.

I didn’t alter the ceremonial office at all, aside from placing pictures of Jackie and my family on the shelves, along with my personal scriptures and a green toy tractor that had a tiny plaque bearing the words “Real and Right.” The tractor was a gift given to me by the Utah Farm Bureau as a reminder of the television commercial I used to introduce myself to the people in the campaign. In the thirty-second spot I recounted a story of my youth when my grandfather taught me the importance of doing what was real and right.

“ What will I do to justify the molecules of paint my shoes will rub off today? “

My favorite place in the Governor’s Office was the small, private office. That little office contained two chairs and a wonderful yellow sofa with light blue piping. The room was always warm and secluded, so whenever I worked alone or needed to think, I did it there.

The Governor’s Office has a very small restroom and shower (though my predecessors apparently didn’t use the shower). I used it often after midday exercise. I also kept extra clothes in the closet in case I needed to freshen a suit or change into casual attire.

Each day when I arrived at the Capitol, I would enter at the west doors and gain access to my office through a private stairway just inside the Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget (GOPB). I would climb the stairs to the second floor, entering the small hallway next to the ceremonial office.

The climb up the stairs became a symbol for me. The stairway hadn’t been painted for a long time, and over the years, the paint had slowly thinned after so many climbs up and down. For the most part, only governors and their security details ever walked those steps. I wondered how many particles of paint were worn off the stairs every time a governor went to work. Hitting the bottom step each morning, I’d privately contemplate a little motivating mantra: “What will I do to justify the molecules of paint my shoes will rub off today?” It was a constant reminder that I occupied a position of power, a public trust both singular and temporary.

A Division of Labor with the Lieutenant Governor

Every governor has to establish the contours of their relationship with the lieutenant governor, who has, by definition, a difficult job. Typically, the lieutenant governor has few statutory duties, and there are often tensions between the staff of the two leaders. Even in situations where the lieutenant governor and governor run in tandem and have close personal relationships, discomfort can develop between the chief of staff and the lieutenant governor. I was resolved to avoid that if possible, and we did. Our success can be attributed to two things: First, we talked about it openly. But second, and most importantly, Lieutenant Governor Olene S. Walker was a remarkable woman, truly one of the great women in the history of Utah. I could not have had a better partner in service.

In the transition period after the election, Olene’s experience as a legislator, educator, and government executive immediately paid dividends. While the lieutenant governor’s office is constitutionally separate from the governor, we decided they would function as one. We agreed that the offices would share every resource. So when the phone rang it was answered as the Governor’s Office. We planned together and functioned as one. Olene had her specific statutory duties to perform, but she was welcome in all meetings, whether statutorily relevant or not. Our schedules were transparent internally. Olene chose her own personal staff, but they were integrated as part of the Governor’s Office team.

She agreed to accept additional duties beyond her statutory responsibilities, and it cannot be

Lieutenant Governor Olene S. Walker in the Utah State Capitol Gold Room.

overstated how deeply I trusted Olene and how much I depended on her. She represented the state of Utah and the governor thousands of times over the decade we served together; I came to value her opinion enormously. One helpful skill of hers was she could read the legislature like a watch. When there was a problem with legislative leadership, I’d

divisions tasked with the state functions of job training, welfare, unemployment, and labor. We moved to consolidate all of those, streamlining services and accessibility under a single department. Olene chaired the committee heading the undertaking. After several months of research, discussion, arguing, turf wrangling, placating, and persuading, she came back with the framework of the new DWS. The new department opened for business in 1997. Two decades later, in June 2017, the twentieth anniversary of the department’s creation, the agency’s downtown administration building was given Olene’s name. Truly fitting.

In American politics, tension between a president and vice president or governor and lieutenant governor is considered part of the basic narrative. It just didn’t happen here. I’m not aware of a single moment when I felt tension between us.

“ Olene was a triple-tasking night owl, a working mother of seven who earned a PhD on the side and helped run a family business.”

just send Olene upstairs and she would come back with the problem solved. She spoke common sense and would give it to me unvarnished. She managed complicated task forces, created new departments, and sorted out knotty relationship issues.

A perfect example of Olene’s incredible work is the Utah Department of Workforce Services (DWS). When Olene and I took office, there were twenty-nine different programs, agencies, and

Olene Walker was one of the most original characters I’ve ever known. She was a triple-tasking night owl, a working mother of seven who earned a PhD on the side and helped run a family business. A glass-ceiling breaker and pioneer at every turn in her career, Olene was admired widely for her intellect. At the same time, she would put us in stitches poking fun at herself. One morning she came to a meeting late and explained how she had set a new record getting ready and driving from her house by putting on her pantyhose on the way and sticking her head out the car window to dry her hair as she drove. The best part is that nobody laughed harder about it than Olene.

When I left to join President George W. Bush’s Cabinet midway through my third term, the reins of state government were turned over to Olene Walker as the fifteenth governor of Utah. That handoff was one of the great privileges of my life. There is a portrait of Olene in the State Capitol that captures her image but can’t convey the life force—the intellect plus the warmth and sense of fun about her; the trailblazing stateswoman-grand-

1 Olene Walker’s swearing in as governor, 2002

2 Olene watches as Mike plays imaginary guitar while waiting for Vice President Dick Cheney. November 2, 2002, Salt Lake City.

3 Capitol for a Day in Richfield, Utah

4 Former Utah governors at Olene Walker’s inauguration. From left : Calvin L. Rampton (1965-1977), Mike Leavitt (1993-2003), Governor Olene Walker (2003-2005), and Norm Bangerter (1985-1993).

5 Olene Walker celebrates Mike Weir winning the Masters golf tournament on the grounds of the Utah State Capitol.

6 President George W. Bush visits with Olene

Governor ’ s Mansion Parlor , December 1996. From left: Myron Walker, Lynne Ward, Lt. Gov. Olene Walker, Alayne Peterson, Brad Barber, First Lady Jacalyn Leavitt, Governor Mike Leavitt, Bob Linnell, Robin Riggs.

mother who drove around in a red Miata. She was a historical marker as Utah’s first woman governor, and to those who worked and interacted with her, so much more.

Our Staffing Model

Early in the transition period between the election and inauguration, I sought the counsel of Olene Walker, Nolan Karras, and Charlie Johnson on the staffing model we should employ, and we discussed this topic at a three-day seminar in Colorado Springs, Colorado, for new governors. Ultimately, I provided the team with the following guidance. I wanted the Governor’s Office to focus on strategy, policy, statewide budget matters, the legislature, and communication. I did not want state agencies run out of the Governor’s Office implicitly or explicitly.

The next important step was setting up the cabinet members as the leaders of their departments and setting up the support staff at their own departments. Some governors assign senior staff members to oversee cabinet members, even though the overseer is often far less experienced than the cabinet member. It is my observation that when that occurs, staff people often begin to micromanage the cabinet. Sometimes it is out of an abundance of caution; other times it is an overabundance of ego. I wanted our cabinet members to lead their departments. I wanted them to be subject-matter experts and to assemble the needed support staff. I believed the support staff should be located at the departments with the department head, not at the Capitol in the Governor’s Office.

When problems arose, I liked to keep most of the problems at the departments. We would use the governor’s staff to make certain the solution was headed in the right direction.

I envisioned the Governor’s Office having several direct working relationships within each department. The chief of staff would work with the cabinet members directly. While the cabinet reported directly to the governor, I made clear to them that the chief of staff spoke for me. By design, this gave the chief of staff a very strong hand.

The primary touch points between the Governor’s Office and each department would be

budget, legislative matters, legal issues, key policy decisions, and communications.

Lynne Ward was the director of the GOPB. She maintained similar relationships with each department’s budget staff as my chief of staff Charlie Johnson did with the cabinet member head of the department. Vicki Varela, my communications deputy, was responsible to monitor and maintain relationships with each department’s communication people so that we were maintaining message discipline and not surprising each other. My general counsel, Robin Riggs, managed the legislative activities and legal activities in similar fashion. I also recruited Bob Linnell, the well-liked mayor of Bountiful, to oversee my relationships with local government.

I knew that to make it work, it was critical that I have a strong, seasoned, and credible chief of staff, hence the decision to choose Charlie Johnson. Charlie had recently retired from the national accounting firm of KPMG and had served Norm Bangerter for a short time as budget director. As you read the balance of this history, it will be evident what a remarkable job he did, serving for nearly five years. Charlie brought a wealth of business and management experience to the administration. He was brilliant with the budget. His relative maturity and credibility gave him an unassailable capacity to speak for the governor. I had actually considered Charlie as a potential lieutenant governor candidate during the election.

After the first reelection and fifth legislative session, Charlie exercised a personal rule of his— never stay in the same job longer than five years. However, I learned to play that game two ways. When I decided to serve in Washington, D.C., in 2003, Charlie was among the first I asked to go with me. We served another five years. And we continue to work together in our post-government lives, this time in business.

Ted Stewart replaced Charlie Johnson, with a brief interlude between them by the state’s first Workforce Services director and cabinet member Bob Gross. Ted had worked as the chief of staff to Congressman Jim Hansen in Washington, D.C., and had run for the U.S. Senate in 1992. He was

not successful in his Senate race, but he certainly impressed me as we campaigned together. When the campaign ended, I asked Ted to become executive director of the Department of Natural Resources (DNR). He had been at DNR for nearly five years when I asked him to replace Charlie as chief of staff. Ted has an exceptional policy mind, is a highly disciplined person, and had great relationships with conservative rural legislators. He was chief of staff during the nearly two years when I was dealing extensively with land and resource issues—a special area of expertise for him. Then, in 1999, he was nominated by President Clinton to become a federal judge. I believe he was the only Republican in eight years to be nominated to the federal bench by President Clinton.

After Ted’s departure for the judiciary, I asked Rich McKeown to become my next chief of staff. Rich was a Salt Lake City lawyer as well as a former neighbor of mine, and we also had children around the same age. I became more acquainted with Rich when I was looking for someone—a Democrat—to appoint to the Utah State Tax Commission. He had just narrowly lost a race for mayor of Salt Lake City, and since Rich was registered as a Democrat, I inquired as to his interest. Given his run for mayor I thought there was a chance he might be open to leaving the practice of law and joining state government. Indeed, he was willing and I appointed him to the Utah State Tax Commission. Subsequently, I appointed him chair of the tax commission, which unsettled Republican legislators. The more I watched Rich in this role and saw his thoughtful even-tempered manner, the more I admired him. After Ted left and I needed a new chief of staff, Rich was on my list.

Appointing a Democrat as chair of the tax commission was one thing. When I appointed a Democrat as my chief of staff, it really caused tongues to waggle. However, Rich distinguished himself quickly and won the confidence of skeptical legislators. He captained the ship during my last reelection, on through the Olympics, and then went with me to Washington, D.C., where he was chief of staff at both the Environmental Protection Agency and Department of Health and Human Services. Rich

was also my co-founder at Leavitt Partners in our post-service life. We worked together for twentytwo years.

Rich is a gifted leader with abundant intellectual ability. But the bulk of his success, in my opinion, is a genius-level emotional and collaborative IQ. Rich is simply unflappable. He often speaks of, and constantly practices, the doctrine of being continuously productive, no matter how provocative others become.

Moving In

As we prepared to move into the Governor’s office, Charlie had the hard job of figuring out where everyone’s office would be. In every organization, but especially government, proximity to the leader is important. I was interested to see how this would be resolved and thought it would be a good test of the chemistry we were building. It was, as the saying goes, nothin’ but net.

The team decided that those on the senior staff who carried general support missions would be on the governor’s side of the Capitol Building. Those senior staff members who had area-specific duties would occupy similar space on the lieutenant governor’s side of the Capitol.

Just outside my office door was Alayne Peterson, who became my trusted personal assistant, scheduler, and colleague for more than a dozen years. I had already known Alayne for years; she had worked with my father. Several years before I was elected, she had moved to Texas. I knew I needed a seasoned person whom I could trust to be my assistant, so on a hunch I called Alayne. As it turns out, she had made a personal decision to return to Utah. In a move both of us have continually laughed about, I asked her to take the job over the phone and she accepted. Alayne stayed with me through all three terms and then in my federal service.

Sitting behind Alayne, and in the same small room outside the governor’s office, was Linda Kendra, Charlie Johnson’s administrative assistant.

Moving down the hall was the Chief of Staff’s

Office with Charlie Johnson; General Counsel’s Office with Robin Riggs; and Deputy for Communications Office with spokesperson Vicki Varela.

Lynne Ward was located on the first floor, managing the entire budget and policy staff at GOPB. Similarly located was Camille Anthony, another senior staffer managing the Governor’s Commission on Criminal and Juvenile Justice.

LaVarr Webb occupied a role we called the Pol-

“ We made a firm decision to be Utah’s First Family in our own unique way, never compromising the wellbeing of our children.“

icy Deputy. LaVarr was simply part of my brain. He had run the campaign, but more than that, he had captured in words many of the ideas we had spent hours discussing. He also oversaw all our political relationships. He was in a position to take special projects and drive them.

LaVarr and I were personal friends before the campaign started. He was the political editor of the Deseret News and had covered campaigns I managed, and we were in a study group together with our wives. We are also the same age and both came from southern Utah. While I had been previously acquainted with others who comprised the senior staff on opening day, LaVarr is the only one I had a close friendship with. The truth is, he was more responsible for me actually getting elected than any other person. He continued to play a similar role in the Governor’s Office.

Vicki Varela and I had worked together at the Board of Regents. She handled communications there, and I was a member of the board. As part of that, I helped her organize a few referendum campaigns that higher education had interest in.

The experience gave me perfect clarity about who I wanted managing communications if I became governor. Vicki had all the attributes the job required: she understood the media and had long-standing relationships in that community. She had also already made the jump from media to communications at the Board of Regents. Plus, we had worked together enough that I felt like I knew what I was getting.

Robin Riggs had been the senior lawyer in the Office of Legislative Counsel. Prior to 1993, the governor depended completely on the attorney general for legal representation. Through a constitutional amendment in 1992, that relationship was changed. As a result, I would be the first governor in Utah history to have my own counsel. I depended heavily on my friend Jon Memmott, who knew that world well. He had been legislative general counsel himself and was also Norm Bangerter’s chief of staff. While we discussed other people, Robin seemed like the perfect choice. In this position you need a legislative, constitutionalist lawyer, not a litigator, prosecutor, or corporate counsel; someone who fully understands how legislation is crafted and adjudicated; has relationships with lawmakers; and knows all the nuts-and-bolts work from executive orders to vetoes. Robin was indeed the right choice.

Two thousand miles away, the state had maintained a Washington, D.C., office ever since the administration of Scott Matheson. It was situated in a building known as The Hall of States, which also houses the National Governors Association. I asked Joanne Neumann, a longtime friend of mine from her time as Senator Jake Garn’s legislative director, to become our state’s director in the Washington, D.C., office. At the time, I assumed this role would be important but had little forewarning of the critical role it would play, given future events.

My last spot to fill was a deputy for education. Once again, I knew who I wanted—Jay Taggart, who had retired as State Superintendent of Schools. The problem: I had to talk Jay out of retirement. We had worked together in a strategic planning process for public education. It was, to a large degree, what had persuaded me I should run for governor.

I had concluded to go after the best people and Jay was it. Jay responded to my appeal and took the job.

The First Lady and Her Team

Down the hill and a few blocks east of the Capitol building at 603 East South Temple, The Governor’s Mansion, another part of our team was being assembled, the Office of the First Lady. In addition to organizing our family to make the transition to a new place of living and a new environment for living, Jackie began preparing to carry out new responsibilities.

First up were meetings to plan adaptations to the second-floor living quarters at the Governor’s Residence to meet our young family’s size. We were aware of our new responsibilities as state hosts and, to some extent, role models. The task of being a role model was not a task Jackie aspired to, and in many ways naturally would have avoided. We made a firm decision to be Utah’s First Family in our own unique way, never compromising the well-being of our children.

Carrying out these duties—hosting, the Gover-

nor’s Residence, the First Lady’s schedule, and the initiatives she selected to support and promote— required a team to help manage. The initial team was a dynamic duo— Carol Bench, the first lady’s assistant, and Judith George, residence manager, soon to be joined by several talented individuals who managed or spearheaded Jackie’s chosen initiatives, focusing on strong families, education, child immunization, and internet safety.

Through nearly eleven years, others joined and were merged into our team. I formed lasting friendships with them too, and their enormous contributions were considerable. There is just something very special about being part of the day-one group, those who stepped up from the earliest days to set our standards, execute the vision, and work diligently over the years to achieve our goals.

The Cabinet

There were fourteen departments and two commission-departments in the executive branch of Utah state government when I took office, each headed by an executive director or commissioner. Collectively, these executive directors, commissioners, and the governor’s chief of staff were considered the cabinet. The cabinet is not a statutory body; in actuality, a governor could define the term to include anyone they choose. By tradition, governors had also met regularly with a larger group of people, which included the leaders of state government organizations who did not serve by direct appointment of the governor, such as the heads

of the Board of Regents, the State Board of Education, or the Workers Compensation Fund. Collectively, the heads of these state government organizations was called the Cabinet Council.

Whenever there is succession in the Governor’s Office, it is expected that turnover within government departments will follow. Because I was succeeding Governor Bangerter, a fellow Republican, there was some question about how many of his department heads I would retain, especially since many of the existing directors were my friends and most had supported me in the election once I got the Republican nomination. All, I think, were on pins and needles about their futures.

Changes in the Cabinet

During the first two weeks after the election, I was consumed by organizing my personal staff and attending various meetings for governors-elect. However, during that time I had been reviewing recommendations from our transition committee.

I started the decision process with some biases. First, during the campaign, particularly in the primary, my opponents had tried to brand me as a continuation of the status quo. When Governor Bangerter endorsed my candidacy pre-primary, it really left Richard Eyre, my opponent, little alternative but to claim I was just more of the same. To counter that argument and show that I would be establishing a new direction, I had been up-front that significant changes would be made. Likewise, I thought change would be constructive. Many had served well but had also served long.

By December 1, 1992, roughly three weeks after the election, I had made my decisions as to who I would retain and who wouldn’t be kept on. I felt it was not respectful of me to have somebody else deliver the news, so I invited each director to meet with me in the transition office in thirtyminute intervals.

That day, I notified ten of the fourteen that they would not be retained. I commended their service to the state and worked to ensure they knew this was part of a wide effort on my part to make the changes required to keep government fresh. Most were gracious and understanding, but still disappointed. One or two argued that it was a bad decision. One of those two later tried to organize a minor campaign to reverse the decision, but it was, of course, fruitless.

and more unfortunate for the people being released than for me, it was not entirely bad. The characterization that I had fired nearly a dozen department heads demonstrated very clearly that I was now taking charge. I reflected later that while I was elected on November 3, 1992, and inaugurated on January 4, 1993, I actually became governor in most people’s minds on December 1, 1992, when I hired my cabinet.

“I feel deeply there is a need for renewal in government,” I explained at the time, “That doesn’t mean people have done a bad job. It’s not political. It’s not personal.”

Slowly over the next two months, I made decisions on who would be coming in. The process of assembling the Leavitt Cabinet varied some, but decisions generally encompassed the creation of a prospect list based on analysis by the transition committee, a background paper on each individual, checking of references, and then a series of interviews. I would typically interview the last three

“ I feel deeply there is a need for renewal in government,” I explained at the time, “That doesn’t mean people have done a bad job. It’s not political. It’s not personal.”

finalists myself, sometimes more than once. At times I guided list creation by telling the team who I wasn’t interested in, or suggesting they interview others I thought would be good candidates.

Disappointing people and inflicting unwanted change into their lives is always uncomfortable, but it was critical I do it, for many reasons. The next day, the newspapers reported the turnover in bold headlines: “Ten Department Heads Fired!” While it was untrue—not retaining is not the same as firing—

One thing I did insist upon doing with each cabinet candidate was participating in the last interview where an offer was finalized. There was an important understanding I wanted to have with each. Once we had agreed that they were willing to accept the job if it was offered, I would explain my expectations of them. The conversation would go something like this:

“I am offering you a position in my cabinet because you are a competent, credible, and experienced person. However, I also expect you to be loyal. There are four things that define loyalty and I want you to understand, remember, and agree to them.”

“ I want to know exactly what you think. That is loyalty.”

“First, I expect you to run the department. I will never know about 99 percent of the decisions you make. I trust they will be made in an honest way that represents your best judgment and comports with what you understand to be the administration’s views. That is loyalty.”

“Second, there are going to be times when a decision you are called upon to make will have ramifications beyond your department and could affect other departments or me in very direct ways. I expect you to elevate those matters to a bigger conversation. That is loyalty.”

“Third, when you or others elevate a matter to a larger conversation, I expect you to be a good collaborative player in coming up with the best solution. I want to know exactly what you think. That is loyalty.”

“Finally, when I’ve listened to the facts and I make a decision other than what you wanted, I want you to remember who got elected governor. That is loyalty.”

The message I wanted to communicate was that we would do things collaboratively; however, I was ultimately accountable to the people, and although my cabinet was accountable to the people also, the cabinet was accountable through me. It was my job as governor to make priority decisions and to weigh competing factors.

Interestingly, when I became a member of President George W. Bush’s cabinet eleven years later, he had almost exactly the same conversation with me.

I do not recall having any problem with cabinet disloyalty. The most difficult place to manage the different agendas was at the legislature. I asked cabinet members not to advocate legislation that was not on a list of legislation the administration supported formally. At times, they would have legislation they needed or wanted that had not made our list of priorities, and it was understandably irritating to them not to be able to pursue them independently. However, the legislature always viewed legislation promoted by the executive branch as an opportunity to horse trade. We had to keep control of that and would devote care to working through those matters.

The budget was another place where occasionally cabinet members got off-message. If it wasn’t in the governor’s budget, I asked them not to advocate for it. Otherwise, we could end up negotiating against ourselves.

The four Bangerter department heads I chose to keep in the same positions were Doug Bodrero as commissioner of the Department of Public Safety; Ed Leary at the Department of Financial Institutions; Rod Betit, who had been the acting executive director of the Department of Health; and Corrections chief Lane McCotter, who had been hired during the previous year by Governor Bangerter after a nationwide search.

Commissioner Bodrero had been a county sheriff in Cache County and served as deputy commissioner under Governor Bangerter. He was well respected by law enforcement statewide. I didn’t want to deal with disruption in law enforcement with all the other changes being made, and I knew I could have confidence in him. Ed Leary was the banking commissioner. He was respected throughout the United States and served several governors before me—and after me. It was an area that was going well and would have presented unique challenges to disrupt.

Rod Betit was an interesting case. Frankly, I went into our interviews disposed to make a change. I really had not worked with Rod before, and Governor Bangerter had hired him out of the Alaska Health Department and brought him to Utah to solve some problems in the Medicaid system.

As I talked with Rod, I really liked his story. He was a Vietnam veteran who served as an intelligence officer. People in and out of the department spoke very highly of him, and it became quickly evident that Rod was a uniquely gifted manager. However, there was a barrier to his service as the permanent director: the law required that a director have either a master’s degree in public health or a medical degree. Rod had neither.

I was particularly interested in understanding how the hospitals would respond to Rod. I figured the public health community would advocate for one of their own and the medical association would push for the director being a doctor, yet the hospitals were very supportive of Rod.

“ I became governor in people’s minds the day I hired my cabinet.”

Positions requiring a specific degree have always bothered me. They seem territorial and ignore entire ranges of skills. I determined to retain Rod, but I would need to get the legislature to change the statutory qualification requirement. Lawmakers complied, and Rod was in.

He served for most of my time as governor. I continually called on him when I had a significant problem to be fixed. There was a time when I had him running the two largest departments in state government—Department of Health and Department of Human Services. I dispatched him twice to solve a protracted legal and political contretemps over child protective services that erupted shortly after I took office. An out-of-state advocacy group had sued the state to compel changes in the mission and focus of the child-services agency, and the courts concurred. Rod was by my side time and again, pitching innovative ideas in Washington, and later preparing for the Olympics. He became a trusted friend and occasional golf partner.

At Corrections, Lane McCotter had been hired only months before by Governor Bangerter. Lane had retired from the U.S. Army as a Lt. Colonel,

having served in the Special Forces as a Green Beret, later embarking on a successful career in the corrections field. He had held the top corrections posts in the states of Texas and New Mexico prior to Utah. Governor Bangerter, who made very few requests of me, asked specifically that I consider retaining Lane, given his short tenure in the prior administration. I think he probably committed to Lane he would do so as part of a recruitment process. I was impressed upon interviewing him and enjoyed our service together.

New Cabinet Selections

Several of my initial cabinet appointees had a direct connection to the campaign trail. I mentioned Ted Stewart as my second chief of staff. However, for the first four-and-a-half years of the administration, Ted served as executive director of the Department of Natural Resources. As such, Ted had oversight over land management, water, fish and wildlife, and most of the state’s interactions with federal land managers.

Ted was exquisitely well qualified to oversee Utah’s national resource interests. As a lawyer, he had been Congressman Jim Hansen’s chief staff person, with a heavy concentration on land and water issues. He had exceptional relationships with leaders throughout rural Utah. However, my interest in Ted’s serving in the administration can be traced to a snowy all-night drive the previous February.

Every general election year, each county Republican Party holds a Lincoln Day dinner as a fundraiser. It is nearly mandatory that candidates for major offices attend, though the schedule did not always mesh with rationality. For example, the Duchesne County dinner was to be held in Roosevelt on Friday night, and Iron County in Cedar City was holding a Lincoln Day breakfast the next morning at 8:30 a.m.; Cedar City and Roosevelt are 331 miles apart over mostly two-lane roads—a six-hour drive under the best of conditions. Naturally, a massive snowstorm moved into the eastern Utah region during the dinner, which was already pushed past 10:00 p.m. with the literally dozens of

CHAPTER TITLE

Governor’s Senior Staff

Lane Beattie

State Olympic Officer

2000 - 2003

Jeff Bennion Boards and Commissions

Appointment

1993 – 1995

Jack F. Demann

Deputy of Intergovernmental Relationships

2000

Gary Doxey

General Council

1998 – 2003

Glen Brown

Deputy of Policy 2001

Nancy Knapp Brown

Boards and Commissions

Appointment

1996 – 2003

Catherine Edwards Boards and Commissions

Appointment 1995 (Photo Unavailable)

Bob Gross

Chief of Staff

1997 – 1998

Corrine Hill

Deputy of Education

1994 – 1997

Charlie Johnson

Chief of Staff

1993 – 1997

Therese Anderson Grinceri Interim Communication Director 2001

Richard Kendell

Deputy of Education

2002 – 2003

Gary Carlston

Deputy of Education

1998 – 1999

Natalie Gochnour

Deputy for Policy and Communications

2001 – 2003

Robert Linnell

Deputy of Intergovernmental Relationships

1993 – 1998

Interim Chief of Staff

1998

Veteran Affairs

2002

Rich McKeown Chief of Staff

1999 – 2003

Leo Memmott Deputy Chief Olympic Officer

2001 – 2003

Con Rowley

Deputy of Education

2000 – 2001

Wayne M. Saltzgiver Deputy of Intergovernmental Relationships

1999

Vicki Varela

Deputy Chief of Staff and Deputy for Communication

1999-2000

Deputy for Communication

1993 - 1998

Lynne Ward

Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget (Director)

1993 – 2003

Joanne S. Neumann Director, Washington D.C. Office

1993 – 2003

Alayne Peterson Governor ’ s Executive Assistant and Scheduler

1993 – 2003

Tim Sheehan

Deputy of Policy

1999 Deputy of Intergovernmental Relationships

1998

LaVarr Webb

Deputy of Policy

1993 – 1998

Ted Stewart Chief of Staff

1998 – 1999

Robin Riggs General Council

1993 – 1998

Jay Taggart Deputy of Education

1993

Department Heads (Cabinet Members) *

Department of Administrative Services

Raylene G. Ireland 1993 – 2002

S. Camille Anthony 2002 – 2003

Department of Agriculture (Commissioner)

Cary Peterson 1993 to 2003

Department of Commerce

Constance (Connie) B. White

1993 – 1995

Douglas C. Borba 1996 – 2000

Klare A. Bachman (Interim) 2001

Ted Boyer 2002 – 2003

Department of Community and Economic Development (DCED)

Joseph A. Jenkins 1993 – 1996

David D. Winder 1997 – 2002

David G. Harmer 2003

Department of Corrections

O. Lane McCotter 1992 – 1997

H.L. (Pete) Haun 1998 – 2000

Michael P. Chabries 2001 – 2003

Department of Environmental Quality

Dianne Nielson 1993 – 2003

Department of Financial Institutions (Commissioner)

G. Edward Leary 1992 – 2003

Department of Health

Rod L. Betit 1993 – 2003

Richard Melton 1996 – 2003

Department of Human Resource Management

Karen Suzuki-Okabe 1993 – 2003

Department of Human Services

D. Michael Stewart 1993

Kerry David Steadman 1994 – 1995

Rod L. Betit 1995 – 1997

Robin Arnold-Williams

1997 – 2003

Department of Insurance (Commissioner)

Robert (Bob) E. Wilcox

1993 – 1996

Merwin Stewart 1997 – 2003

Department of Natural Resources

Ted Stewart 1994 – 1998

Kathleen B. Clarke 1998 – 2001

Bob Morgan 2002 – 2003

Department of Public Safety

Douglas D. Bodrero 1992 – 1996

Craig Dearden 1997 – 2000

Robert L. Flowers 2001 – 2003

Department of Transportation

W. Craig Zwick 1994 – 1995

Thomas R. Warne 1996 – 2001

John R. Njord 2001 – 2003

Department of Workforce Services

Bob C. Gross 1996 – 2002

Raylene G. Ireland 2002 – 2003

* In the next few lists, I only included the years of service within the time that I was governor, 1992 to 2003. However, many of these people worked in these positions before 1992 or after 2003.

Elected Officials

State Auditor

Tom Allen 1992 – 1994

Auston Johnson 1995 – 2003

State Treasurer

Ed Alter 1992 – 2003

Attorney General

Jan Graham 1993 – 2001

Mark Shurtleff 2001 – 2003

Other Senior Staff (Cabinet Council Members)

Commission on Criminal and Juvenile Justice System

Camille Anthony 1993 – 2002

Ed McConkie 2002 – 2003

Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget (Director)

Lynne Ward

1993 – 2003

Other Cabinet Council Members

Department of Employment Security

Floyd Astin 1992 – 1996 (This department became a part of Department of Services in 1997 )

Superintendent of Public Instruction

Scott Bean 1993 – 1998

Steve Laing 1999 – 2003

Division of Finance

Gordon Crabtree 1993 – 1995

Kim Thorne 1996 – 2002

Utah Housing Finance Agency (UHFA)

William Erickson 1993 – 2003

CHAPTER #

Utah Industrial Commission

Stephen Hadley 1985 – 1996

State Court Administrator

Ronald W. Gibson 1992 – 1994

Daniel J. Becker 1995 – 2003

Board of Regents

Rolfe Kerr 1993

Cecelia Foxley 1993 – 2003

Military Affairs (Military Adviser)

John Matthews 1994 – 1998

Adjutant General of the Utah National Guard

John Matthews 1992 – 1994

Jim Miller 1994 – 2000

Brian L. Tarbet 2000 – 2003

Utah State Tax Commission (Executive director)

Clyde R. Nichols Jr. 1993

Rodney G. Marrelli 1994 – 2003

Utah State Tax Commission (Chair)

Val Oveson 1993 – 1998

Rich McKeown 1998 – 1999

Pam Hendrickson 1999 – 2003

IT Coordinator/Chief Information Officer

Gordon Peterson 1993 – 1997

David Moon 1998 – 2001

Phil Windley 2002

Val Oveson 2003

Board of Pardons

Mike Sibbett, Chairman 1993 – 2003

Worker’s Compensation Fund of Utah

Lane Summerhays, executive director 1992 – 2003

Utah Retirement Systems Board

M. Dee Williams 1992 – 1999

Robert V. Newman 1999 – 2003

Alcoholic Beverage Control

Kenneth F. Wynn 1994 – 2003

School and Institutional Trust Lands Administration

Scott Hirschi 1995

David T. Terry 1996 – 2001

Stephen G. Boyden 2001 – 2003

Kevin S. Carter 2003

Speechwriter

Laurie S. Maddox 1997 – 2003

candidates all needing to make their impression on prospective delegates.

The plan had been for my brother Mark, a private pilot, to fly me from Roosevelt to Cedar City early the next morning. The blizzard grounded us, with weather reports showing the storm would intensify until noon the next day. I would need to drive or miss the Lincoln Day event in my hometown.

Ted, seeing my plight, offered me a ride. It meant that five fairly large bodies would be crammed into his rather small car, so Ted and I took the wheel, alternating driving through the storm as three of his staff people dozed fitfully in a back seat meant for two. On we drove for seven-and-a-half hours on those two-lane roads through the storm, talking about every conceivable subject—some rather personal and sensitive. By the time we got to Cedar City we had achieved a new level of friendship. I didn’t know if either of us would win at that point, but if I did, I determined to serve with people like Ted Stewart.

When Ted accepted the job as chief of staff, I appointed his deputy director, Kathleen Clarke to replace him. Ultimately, Kathleen was appointed by President Bush to head the U.S. Bureau of Land Management. Robert Morgan, director of the Division of Water Rights, was promoted to take her place.

While Mike Stewart was a competitor in the race for governor, the two of us quickly came to realize we had much in common. There was a point in time I considered him as a lieutenant governor selection, but the timing wasn’t right. When Mike was eliminated at the state convention, my primary opponent Richard Eyre worked hard to get Mike to become his running mate. Mike declined and opted to endorse me. That was an important development because it demonstrated he would keep his word in the face of an offer. I knew from our time together on the campaign trail that he had a passion for public assistance services to the needy. It had been the focus of his work as a county commissioner; he was fluent in socialservices issues and well-liked by many of the advocacy organizations in the department’s orbit.

Consequently, his name figured prominently in discussions by the transition committee, and I chose him to head the Department of Human Services.

Within months, he was awash in negative news coverage reporting that some of the rental properties he owned and rented out to lower-income tenants had code violations, and that he also had failed to pay taxes on some of them—and failed to disclose it in transition discussions. In August of 1993, he resigned. It was a political firestorm that singed the early months of my administration, as I had ultimate responsibility for cabinet selections.

“ I am offering you a position in my cabinet because you are a competent, credible, and experienced person. However, I also expect you to be loyal.”

Mike was replaced by Kerry Steadman, who had been Human Services Director for Salt Lake County. When he left the job, I appointed my longtime colleague Robin Arnold-Williams.

Two other cabinet picks had a close connection to the 1992 campaign. Joe Jenkins was a popular mayor of Provo. He had considered running for various offices himself, and I had been told by others that Joe would be an excellent candidate for lieutenant governor. I had continually pushed for his endorsement and was delighted to receive it. It was important that I do well in Utah County, and I felt having Provo’s mayor as a supporter would be enormously helpful. His mayoral chief of staff, Raylene Ireland, was a very competent woman who wielded enormous influence within the Utah County Republican Party. Both Joe Jenkins and Raylene Ireland played vital roles in both my elections, especially during the primary.

In the selection of cabinet officers, the geographic region they came from was often of great significance to others, especially party and community leaders from outside Salt Lake City. The truth is, I had concluded I wanted both Joe and Raylene in leading roles in the administration before I was sure where they would fit best. They were both extraordinarily talented people who could serve in several places.

I wanted to ensure that women were well-represented in leading roles. Raylene had also been on my lieutenant governor short list, but ultimately, I invited her to head the Department of Administrative Services, a role her leadership in city and county government had well prepared her to take on. Initially, I was going to bring Joe into the Governor’s Office to handle intergovernmental relations, but later concluded he best fit at the Department of Community and Economic Development. When Joe and his wife were called later for a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,1, 2 David Winder, a well-respected CPA, was then chosen.

The Department of Transportation is prominent in the daily lives of Utahns as they travel and commute. The transition committee developed a long list of potential candidates to head it up. One that immediately jumped out at me was Craig Zwick, who had been the leader of Zwick Construction Company before serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ in Chile. I loved the idea of a private-sector orientation in the department, and while Craig had no government experience, I felt confident his abundant management and leadership skills would make him a strong department head. He had been working most recently in business development for his former competitor, Layton Construction. It seemed like a great fit and we asked him to accept the position.

In 1995, Craig left to provide service as a General Authority of the Church of Jesus Christ. I did a national search, hiring Tom Warne, who had been the Deputy Director of Transportation in Arizona.

Surprisingly, choosing a Commissioner of Agriculture turned out to be one of the most controversial decisions I made. I found myself in the middle of an ongoing dispute among dairy groups; the milk-producing interests and the milk co-op groups had bad blood between them. The transition committee forwarded me the names of three people, all very good friends and allies of mine. First, Glen Brown, a former Speaker of the House of Representatives member and brother of Rep. Mel Brown, who would later become Speaker. Glen and his brother were milk producers and deeply involved in milk politics. Second, Ken Ashby, the elected president of the Utah Farm Bureau. The Farm Bureau was aligned with the co-op managers. And finally, Cary Peterson, a longtime friend of my family, who had served in the legislature with my father for years.

Any of the three would have been excellent. However, it became clear to me quickly that choosing either of the milk interests was a recipe for certain trouble with the others. Choosing Cary Peterson avoided the diary/farm bureau complication and he was a first rate policy person who was widely respected. Unfortunately, the decision caused my relationship with the Brown family to suffer for a while. Some years later, Glen joined my administration. He is one of the finest people I know.

For the Department of Environmental Quality, I wanted a scientist. Dianne Nielson was among a number I interviewed. She had been working at the Division of Oil, Gas, and Mining, and both the industry and the environmental interests liked her. She is a PhD-level geologist. I really enjoyed

1. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the religion with the highest percentage of followers in Utah. Some may recognize the Church more by the names the “ Mormon Church” or the “LDS Church.” These names are incorrect, and the Church has asked that people refer to the Church by its full name, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or “The Church” or “The Church of Jesus Christ” when a shortened name is needed (“Style Guide—The Name of the Church, https://newsroom.churchofjesuschrist.org/style-guide). These are the terms I will use throughout this book.

2. Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints often have the opportunity to serve what is called a “mission” for the Church. Members send in applications to the leaders in the Church, expressing a desire to serve, and then the leadership “call” these members to different assignments. These are one- to three-year assignments to anywhere around the world, where missionaries do a variety of different tasks, such as proselyting and serving the community.

the interviews and concluded to go with my gut on this one. It turned out to be one of the truly wonderful relationships I developed as governor. I came to trust her implicitly. She carried a heavy load of issues for me in Utah, regionally and nationally.

At the Department of Commerce, I was impressed with the department’s legal counsel, Connie White, and promoted her to executive director, where she took the seat being vacated by Ted Stewart’s move to Natural Resources. Later in my administration, Douglas Borba headed the department.

Because I came from the insurance industry, there were abundant rumors about who I might choose as Commissioner of Insurance. Therefore, I knew it was a selection that required political care. I quickly settled on a no-nonsense actuary, Bob Wilcox, who I had worked with on several projects over the years. There was little drama after his announcement. I think the industry recognized his competence. Bob had worked with the National Association of Insurance Commissioners a fair amount and was able to quickly become a leader within that organization. Bob served for the first term, and was succeeded by Merwin Stewart, a retired Beneficial Life executive whose tenure lasted the next eight years.

Rounding out the appointments were former Lieutenant Governor Val Oveson, Governor Bangerter’s very competent second-in-command, to head the Utah State Tax Commission; Steve Hadley at the Utah Industrial Commission; and Karen Suzuki-Okabe at the Department of Human Resource Management.

Cabinet Meetings

Cabinet meetings both at the presidential and gubernatorial level tend to be somewhat of a ritual. However, they also serve an important purpose. It is an efficient way of keeping people informed, as well as a physical reminder that each one is part of the larger whole and their interests at times need to be subordinated to the whole. There is value in a periodic reminder that they work for the governor and not just their department or other interests.

The reality is that most of the work among departments has to be done in smaller groups to be productive. However, after the informational portion of cabinet meetings was finished, we would have a couple departments each time talk about their initiatives. Often those sessions would create a productive dialogue between departments, and also served to cross-pollinate ideas. Routinely, I would choose a subject I wanted to hear discussion about from various points of view, and we would have free-flowing conversations.

We also developed a tradition of taking the entire cabinet on a road trip together and dubbed it “Capitol for a Day.” A city would be selected and we would symbolically move the center of government power there for a day. We would have each of the department heads visit constituents, work on problems, and then meet for a town meeting. While I’m sure the communities felt the value, it was a great thing for the cabinet. We would ride on a bus together, and though we would almost always ask people to read a specific book for discussion on the trip, by the time we finished it had devolved into the adult version of a high school band trip. It was great for relationship building and a good policy gesture, too. I still count my former cabinet colleagues to be among my favorite people. Great friendships are made in public service.

06

Organizing Work as Governor

I have often described the job of governor as ten different overlapping jobs, with the gravitational pull of nonstop opportunity, a ticking time clock, and a steady supply of new problems creating a job with virtually endless potential demand. If the governor was willing to meet with people at 2 a.m., there would be no shortage of takers. While I was never very successful in modulating my pace, I worked at it constantly. I found ways to multiply my productive output and keep normal life at least within sight.

A Short-Term Plan with Long-Term Results

In the Governor’s Office, things changed so fast we would often find ourselves responding randomly. I found it useful to get the senior team together for a couple of days to essentially recalibrate how we deployed. We did this twice a year. Most commonly these outings would be in the late spring, after the legislature and bill signing had concluded, and then again by early fall as we approached the next legislative session. There was no exact time on the calendar; it was more when I felt our (and my) focus was wandering. We got better at this as the administration matured. If I were to serve again, I would formalize the process.

One thing that improved these recalibration meetings was something I learned after visiting Australia shortly after the Sydney Olympics in

September and October of 2000. I had made a trip to Australia in order to learn from their experience, specifically, to understand how they exploited the games to stimulate economic expansion. While there, I met a key figure who had led the Australian government’s efforts in managing the Olympic Games. He described how both a short-term and long-term plan needed to be developed and recounted how Australian leaders created benchmarks for their progress, quantifying accountability by measuring goals completed within a specified number of days.

I realized I wanted to apply this concept, not just to the Olympic games but also to Utah economics as a whole. On the plane ride home Rich McKeown and I conceptualized a concept I referred to as a thousand-day plan with a ten-thousand-day horizon, and I have used this model ever since. It was a thousand-day plan for economic renewal in Utah, to do things like bring unemployment down or strengthen education. The thousand days are a rolling period of time that is recalibrated periodically—priorities are added and deleted due to changing circumstances. The larger number is the vision horizon, the smaller number reflects a shorter tactical period where we do things in order to shape the world toward the longer-term outcome.

“ Thousand-day plan, tenthousand-day horizon.”

I have varied the time periods to fit the circumstances. For example, during my time as Health and Human Services secretary, I used a five-hundredday plan with a five-thousand-day horizon. We did a formalized recalibration every 250 days, and the five thousand days took us to the end of our term.

In my service as governor, we had the benefit of a clear set of purposes—the five key principles I established when first running for office in 1992. They were refined as we went but did not fundamentally change.

At the retreats, the senior staff and I would start by reviewing the five primary objectives. Then we would start listing all the things we were

working on or wanted to work on. Typically, we would then prioritize them considering their urgency, the opportunity, or ripeness for progress and how well they moved one of our major objectives forward.

At the end of the retreat, our goal was to have a consolidated list of things to work on, with staff assignments laid out according to how we prioritized in coming months. The lists tended to be divided into three groups:

(1) Our state agenda,

(2) Problems we had to solve, and (3) National and regional initiatives (National Governors Association, Western Governors’ Association, etc.). The Washington D.C. office tended to be the center of activity on national and regional agenda items and all others were driven by our state capitol team. It was the chief of staff’s job to coordinate it all.

Over time, we figured out we could travel to some fun and interesting places for these retreats— without great expense. For example, several times we went to my family ranch in Loa. We used a friend’s retreat in Palm Springs once, visited Antelope island, and even went to a National Guard facility at Camp Williams.

Scheduling Meetings

Our strategic objectives wouldn’t be met unless we allocated time to them. Therefore, the most important routine meeting of the week was the scheduling meeting.

Ours often lasted two hours. We would hold them either in the Governor’s Office or in the small dining room at the Governor’s Mansion. I generally conducted the meeting. The staff that usually came was Alayne Peterson, the chief of staff, communications director, head of the security detail, and a representative of the lieutenant governor’s office, as well as Jackie and her staff. While the meetings were not designed as such, they inevitably became strategic sessions as we sorted among competing demands and priorities.

Alayne would bring a pre-screened collection of requests that had been received during the week, generally thirty to forty. One at a time we would discuss whether the request fit into our priorities. The schedule was divided into fifteen-minute blocks.

1 From left: Olene Walker, Amy Hansen, Tim Sheehan at the Governor’s Mansion

2 State Capitol, Mike and Vicki Varela

3 Natalie Gochnour, Deputy for Policy and Communications

4 Cabinet Retreat in Loa, August 19, 1997

5 Cabinet Retreat, Antelope Island, August 1998

6 Bill signing in the Gold Room, Utah State Capitol

We developed different tools to multiply or leverage my time. For example, if I was doing appointments with people from outside the office, we would try to do them in blocks so I could have time for preparation and staff work. If a meeting needed to be held, but it could held by the lieutenant governor, a cabinet member, or a senior staff member, it was managed that way. Another favorite time extender was the “cameo.” Under this arrangement a staff member would meet with the person, and I would stop by for the last five minutes. The staff member would quickly summarize the meeting, define the issue, and then say what he or she recommended. I would either concur or make a suggestion.

I always wanted people who came to the Governor’s Office for an appointment to feel like we were pleased they came; a meeting with the governor was usually a very big deal and of real importance to them. The key was to have someone else do most of the listening and summarize their request. I would always try to repeat back to the person what I understood them to want.

On particularly busy days we would organize a “dental model.” We called it this because it was like having patients in multiple dental chairs at the same time, with assistants getting ready for the dentist to work. Staff members would organize meetings in multiple rooms at the same time, telling those in the meeting that the governor would join shortly. I would move from meeting to meeting, spending a minute to make our guest feel I was focused on them. I would ask the staff member to summarize what had occurred already rather than starting the meeting over. Their job was to tee up the appropriate response quickly. I would either confirm the conclusion or make another suggestion and then excuse myself, moving to the next room. The staff member would then be responsible to carry out the required follow-up.

This dental model was particularly useful when we were meeting with groups for proclamations or bill signings. We could have meetings with a dozen groups in an hour, including pictures.

Today, I carry my schedule on my phone. The capacity to do that didn’t exist before, so every day Alayne would provide a 3x5 card with the play-by-

Carlsbad Retreat, June 2003. From left: Rich Kendell, Lynne Ward, Alayne Peterson, Joanne Neumann, Mike Leavitt, Val Oveson, Olene Walker, Rich McKeown, Natalie Gochnour, Kim Hood, Fran Stultz

1 Mike Leavitt presenting to his Cabinet

2 Mike Leavitt and Marty Stephens, Utah Speaker of the House, flying on the state plane to Denver for the EPA appointment announcement, 2003.

3,4 Carlsbad retreat with Val Oveson, Rich McKeown, Natalie Gochnour, Kim Hood, and Lynne Ward, March 2003

5 Governor's Office, Mike reviewing appointments with Olene.

6 President Gerald Ford in Palm Springs with Mike and Gary Doxey

play schedule taped to it. If there was a change, she would substitute the card.

When I was out of the office, the staff member accompanying me or a member of the security detail would keep Alayne updated by phone as to whether we were on schedule, behind or ahead. That would allow her to be working ahead if adjustments were needed.

Security Detail

Under state statute, the governor is provided security protection by a special detail of the Utah Highway Patrol, referred to as Executive Protection. While emphasis is placed on the security aspect of their job, I came to understand that they actually served four important roles. The first, and most important, is security. The reality is, the governor and the governor’s family are routinely the subject of threats—some that law enforcement becomes aware of, others they do not. While most threats don’t amount to anything, it only takes one time for something to happen, so I was always appreciative of law enforcement’s thorough and conscientious protection.

The additional roles of the protective detail are less recognized but critical to a governor’s success. The security detail takes responsibility to transport the governor safely and expeditiously from place to place. They are also the communication link between the governor and the rest of government. It is absolutely necessary for various officials to communicate with the governor immediately, twenty-four hours a day. The security detail carried a dedicated phone that was in my presence constantly. In addition to communication, they provided other quasi-staff functions. For example, when staff was not available to advance an event, the executive protection officer would brief me on what to expect as I approached a venue.

Finally, while you won’t find it listed on a formal job description, the camaraderie my security detail provided was unforgettable and priceless to me. They became my friends; we shared many experiences together. They cared about me and my family, and I cared about theirs. I watched them grow in their abilities, their careers, and as people.

Initially I just accepted the people the superintendent of the highway patrol assigned. However, I quickly realized three things: First, I was going to spend a lot of time with them and therefore needed to be careful with my choice. I am not the kind of person who could treat them as invisible fixtures; they were part of my team. Second, I was going to depend on them and I needed people with the right skills to interact with the public and to carry out their tasks skillfully. Lastly, they were going to be interacting with my family constantly, and I could tell the troopers were going to have influence on them. I wanted to know who these folks were. So it soon became standard operating procedure that I was the final interview before anybody was assigned to executive protection.

While it was a different kind of duty than most of the officers signed up for at the Utah Highway Patrol (UHP), I think they quickly came to understand that it put them in a position to observe the operation of government, including public safety, from a very close view. They were able to travel the state, country, and world with all of the enrichment that comes with those experiences. I encouraged the leadership of the highway patrol to identify early career, high-potential persons and put them on the detail, because the job should be considered leadership training. The truth is, if you look at the leadership of the highway patrol over a period of years, it will become evident that many of the men and woman who emerged as leaders spent time on executive protection.

Eight or nine people served on “The Detail,” as we called it, at one time. Over the course of the entire period of my service, twenty-three people were assigned. I could fill a book on this topic alone—stories about our experiences, the interesting times we shared, and the friendships gained. They were almost uniformly positive.

When the detail and I were clicking, it was a well-oiled machine. They worked in teams of three: One would drive me, a second would advance the first event, and a third would advance the second. Once concluded with an event, the advance man on event one would move to advance event three, and so on in a rolling forward movement. In between events I was either preparing for the next event or making phone calls.

Modes of Travel

Every two years, the security detail would get a new car to transport the governor. They were part of a Ford Motors arrangement where the company subsidized a lease in order to have state chief executives traveling in their automobiles. Consequently, we drove Lincoln Town cars for most of the time I was governor. I loved the cars; they were roomy and comfortable. Generally, I would sit in the front seat, but if I had a lengthy drive, I could spread out in the back seat, making it into a mobile office. Or, on occasion, I’d take a nap.

The state of Utah owned two aircraft during my tenure. Both were King Air planes, one a nineseater, the smaller one seating six. Before State Aeronautics bought the smaller King Air, they flew a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron. I used the airplanes a lot, for both in-state and out-of-state travel.

What I really wanted the state to own was a helicopter. We could never have justified the expense just to transport the governor, but I knew it could save considerable time when making trips to Provo, Ogden, Park City, and the shorter in-state trips with greater road congestion. There were weeks when I could spend hours in the car driving. While I would try to make them productive, it was still transportation time.

After a few years in office, State Aeronautics was able to buy two used military helicopters. They were old. They looked like the helicopters on the television show M*A*S*H*, though they were painted to look nice. We started using them when they were not deployed on business. Why not? The pilots were just sitting around with nothing to do otherwise. It was great. I loved taking off from the front lawn of the Capitol. It wasn’t as dramatic as having Marine One pick you up on the south lawn of the White House, but it was close.

Truth be told, those old helicopters weren’t very safe, and I should never have flown in them. Both of them crashed in different incidents later. In one situation, the helicopter appears to have just broken apart. Regrettably, the pilot who flew me, UHP Sgt. Doyle Thorne, was killed in that incident.

1 Dixie Leavitt’s 70th birthday at Governor’s Mansion

2 Dalai Lama and Leavitt family at Governor’s Residence

3 Val Christenson Artist Series, Governor’s Mansion

4 Mike and Bruce Clayton in the Lincoln Town Car

5 Bob Gomez and Jimmy Higgs, protection detail

6 Mike Leavitt giving a gift to the Dalai Lama

Later, the state obtained two very safe and modern helicopters from the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office. The helicopters had been donated by the Skaggs family because the family concluded they could not use them efficiently. I could though—and most enthusiastically did.

The use of the state plane was always a curiosity for reporters. Every year, somebody felt a need to do a critical report on the governor’s use of the plane. It always irked me.

One year we became aware that a young newspaper reporter was reviewing the State Aeronautics logs. Reporters never found anything, but always questioned whether it was legitimate for my family to fly on it with me. Or they would challenge whether we had reimbursed the state for the proper amount of a political trip. Always something, and always with innuendo.

The reporter continued to press for an interview. I resisted. Finally, I was persuaded by Vicki Varela that I needed to do the interview. I agreed to have her accompany me and ask questions while I did my exercise walk through Memory Grove. The reporter showed up in red cowboy boots. Yes, brand-new cowboy boots. As we walked, her questions became increasingly irritating. I thought, “Two can play this game,” and I just slowly picked up the pace. The new cowboy boots had to be killing her feet. To her credit, she just kept walking and asking. I just kept picking up speed. I’m a little embarrassed now that I got satisfaction out of it, but I did.

Flying on small airplanes is not for everybody. Jackie and one of my children are very sensitive to motion sickness, and there were many others who got sick when they flew with me. Routinely, I would invite people to travel with me in order to conduct business or to get better acquainted with them. If things got bouncy, we would have awkward moments. I was very sensitive to the motion sickness because of Jackie and did everything I could to relieve the discomfort and the embarrassment anyone experienced by getting sick in the governor’s plane—in front of the governor. However, there was one occasion, I have to confess finding the experience a bit satisfying.

I had flown to Bryce Canyon on a snowy spring day to address a gathering of the Utah Association of Counties. I found that a good friend of mine, Senator Scott Howell, had driven with a highway patrolman to Bryce Canyon so he could also speak. As we finished, I said, “Scott why don’t you fly back with me?” He readily agreed.

During the flight, Scott explained to me that his party was encouraging him to run against me. He told me it wasn’t personal, which I understood. However, he continued to press the point a bit.

As we were approaching the Salt Lake Valley, the air became very turbulent, and for nearly twenty minutes we were being bounced every which way. It was actually quite miserable. Just as we touched down, Scott lost it in a fairly spectacular way.

As we taxied toward the hangar, we were trying to clean up. I put my hand on Scott’s knee and earnestly said, “Scott, it’s like this every day.” He didn’t run for governor.

Using the Mansion

The Utah Governor’s Residence, or the Governor’s Mansion, has historically been the place of residence for the governor and family. However, the fire at the mansion on December 15, 1993, caused our use of it to be unique. We actually lived at the mansion for the first eleven months of our service, then spent nearly three years restoring it, and used it as a work asset the balance of the time. In this portion, I will discuss only our use of the mansion as a work asset.

While secretary of the United States Department of Health and Human Services, I spent considerable time talking with Senator Ted Kennedy about health care reform and what it would take for something bipartisan to pass Congress. He began to reflect on a favorite tactic of his brother, John F. Kennedy, while he was president. “He would gather leaders of Congress from both parties at Blair House, and over dinner they would talk about what they have in common.”

Blair House is a residence within the White House complex of buildings in which diplomatic guests, particularly former heads of state, are

ORGANIZING WORK AS GOVERNOR

invited to stay. For President Kennedy, it represented a neutral ground with major prestige that made people feel fortunate to visit. If he invited people to the White House, it was different.

For us, the Governor’s Mansion was a similar asset. I would often work there when I had meetings that required some degree of sensitivity and privacy. People could slip in and out of the Governor’s Mansion without feeling conspicuous. Sometimes it would be an interview or a session involving a request or tasking someone to do something specific. Doing so at the Governor’s Mansion made the experience more intimate and special.

Jackie worked there nearly every day, since the offices of the First Lady were housed at the Mansion.

It was also a place for us to entertain at our highest level. It’s a magical light show when the large table in the main dining room is set with china and the silver service from the U.S.S. Utah, and the settings and highly polished cherry wood in the

room are reflected off the crystal chandeliers overhead. Guests always knew they had been invited someplace special.

The ballroom on the top floor provided a private venue we used to great advantage. Once, I needed to persuade the state’s police agencies to cooperate on a project. Had I invited them to the Governor’s Board Room, the conversation would have been combative. By inviting them to the Governor’s Mansion, it was dignified.

We regularly invited families to have dinner. For example, when we formed the Utah Foster Care Foundation, Jackie and I hosted dinner on two separate evenings for prominent Utah families. We ate in the dining room and then retired to the parlor to talk about how they could help the children of the state. A more dignified ask could not be made.

Often, we would invite guests to stay the night. On the night of my State of the State speech, we would invite important economic development guests to sit in the balcony. We would then go to the mansion for dinner and they would stay the night.

We had heads of state stay overnight. The Dalai Lama spent an entire week—an unforgettable experience. As was the Mansion itself. A magical place, and I loved working there.

The Mansion Fire

This same chapter is also in volume four, In Service as a Family , because of how it affected both my personal service as governor and my family during the time I served as governor.

The days leading up to our first Christmas in office were merry and busy. In December 1993, the state capitol and the Utah Governor’s Mansion were bedecked in holiday finery, and both were abuzz with events, festivities, and the regular order of business heading into a legislative session just a few weeks away.

I was slated to give my first budget address to the legislature at midday on Wednesday, December 15. Later that evening, Jackie and I were hosting the Governor’s Mansion Artist Series, which would be attended by some of the state’s most prominent citizens.

The morning of the fifteenth started like most other days. I awoke around 6 a.m. in the master bedroom of the Mansion, where windows along the eastern wall framed the snow-covered branches of a large cottonwood tree outside.

I went over the day’s events in my mind before heading to the shower in the white-and-black-tiled master bath. The bathroom fixtures were more modern than the room felt; years earlier, Governor J. Bracken Lee had reportedly moved out of the Mansion in frustration over a showerhead that water-bombed him from every direction.

The opulence of an earlier time and an air of history permeated the place. The Mansion had risen lavishly at 603 East South Temple soon after the turn of the nineteenth century and became an entertainment showpiece as well as a residence. President Teddy Roosevelt had slept there, and President Dwight Eisenhower had dropped in for a visit.

French Renaissance Splendor

The building is a mansion by every conceivable measure. It was built in 1902 by Thomas Kearns, the son of a farming family from the Midwest, who traveled to Utah in 1883 to seek his fortune. He found it in mining. Kearns struck it rich by buying up a handful of mines in Park City where silver was found in abundance, including the Silver King Mine—one of the greatest silver mines in the world. Kearns became a prominent citizen, a co-owner of the The Salt Lake Tribune newspaper, and a US senator for one term. When he and his business partners became wealthy, each built their mansion along South Temple near downtown Salt Lake City.1

The Kearns mansion, designed in the French Renaissance architectural style by Utah architect Carl M. Neuhausen, was a twenty-eight-room marvel with six baths, ten fireplaces, an all-marble kitchen, electric lights, steam-heated radiators, a call board, dumb waiters, a billiard room, a thirdfloor ballroom, a bowling alley in the basement, and ornate trims and fixtures throughout. Kearns’s wife, Jennie Judge Kearns, traveled to Europe to hand-select the finest art, furniture, and decor. The

Mansion had turrets on three of its four corners, carvings around the windows and doors, and a carriage house on the grounds—initially for Thomas Kearns’s eight carriages, and later for cars. Kearns also had three vaults in the home, according to the Deseret News, to store his “copious wealth and wine stocks.”2

Following Kearns’s passing, Jennie donated the building to the state in 1937 with the condition that it serve as the official residence of the governor. A succession of governors resided there until 1957, when the property was turned over to the Utah Historical Society for two decades until the administration of Governor Scott Matheson, who launched a renovation of the Mansion in 1977 and restored it to its role as the governor’s residence by 1980.

“And a Merry Christmas to You All”

In line with that renewed tradition, our family had moved in upon my inauguration. I was observing another tradition on December 15 as well; my first event that morning was a breakfast meeting at 7:30 a.m. with the editorial boards, publishers, and owners of the major news organizations in the state to preview the budget message I would be delivering to legislators later that day. The budget-review breakfast with the media was an annual event started by one of my predecessors.

There had been a festive gathering of cabinet and governor’s office staff and families the night before in the ballroom, one of several held that year with music, cheer, and lots of food. People loved to come to the Governor’s Mansion anytime, but especially at Christmas.

Volunteers had begun decorating the Mansion inside and out right after Thanksgiving. Holly berry draped every wreath. Tiny lights made the woodwork and marble floors twinkle. Christmas trees animated nearly every room, including a twenty-two-foot fresh pine that reached from the main floor though an open ceiling all the way to the third floor. This was a masterpiece of tree decoration, complete with yule logs at the base and

1. Brooklyn Lancaster, “Thomas Kearns Mansion and Carriage House.” Utah Historical Markers, University of Utah. https://utahhistoricalmarkers.org/c/slc/thomas-kearns-mansion-and-carriage-house/

2. Jerry Spangler. “Loss is a blow to ex-First Lady,” Deseret News, 16 December 1993

Photos

1 Smoke from the fire coming from the mansion roof

2 Press conference with family in front of the mansion

3 Chase and Mike walking to safety after fire.

4 Firefighter on balcony

5 Damage from the fire inside mansion

Photos courtesy of The Salt Lake Tribune

cotton on the branches to connote snow, along with hundreds of carefully placed ornaments and two thousand lights.

I was joined at the kitchen table by my older sons, Mike and Taylor, who were hurriedly eating bowls of cereal before rushing off to East High School. As the first guest arrived, I could hear Jackie getting Anne Marie and Chase ready for the drive to Bonneville Elementary in our old neighborhood.

Our guests assembled in the formal dining room on the main floor. As they ate, I laid out the details of the budget, taking care to pause on my priorities in hopes they would provide editorial support in their publications.

As I talked, I noticed a staff member walk through the grand hallway and plug in the big Christmas tree. An immediate brilliance filled the room, and we all paused to enjoy the moment. “And merry Christmas to you all,” I said, before moving on with my remarks. The editors and publishers asked questions and expressed their opinions. When we finished, I bid them goodbye, walked upstairs to make sure Jackie knew the details of when she needed to arrive at my office for the budget address, and off I went to the Capitol.

“ Governor, there has been a small tree fire on the second floor of the Mansion.“

It was interim day for the legislature, which meant committee meetings for lawmakers in preparation for the general session in January. Beyond the buzz of legislators, staff, and lobbyists circulating around the Capitol, the spirit of Christmas livened the scene. A large Christmas tree sparkled in the rotunda, and a high school choir sang carols on the east steps, their harmonies cascading along the granite walls and up toward the domed ceiling.

I still had preparation to do for the budget address, which was the main event of the day. I had already decided not to read a prepared speech, but rather to speak from talking points, using large charts as supporting materials. I wanted to take questions from legislators and engage them in a dialogue. It was the first budget my administration had developed entirely on our own, and I wanted the legislature to know I understood it and was prepared to defend it.

A Small Fire on the Second Floor

About 11:15 a.m., I was working with budget director Lynne Ward and chief of staff Charlie Johnson at the oval table in the formal office when Lee Perry, one of my security detail, appeared suddenly at the door of the office.

“Governor, there has been a small tree fire on the second floor of the Mansion. Apparently, they have it all put out and things will be okay,” he said.

My mind flashed back to when I was fourteen years old and our family home had caught fire. It was a traumatic experience for my family and me, and I knew that any such event would be unsettling to Jackie. Lee Perry’s brief report also was troubling; the second-floor tree he referred to was an artificial tree—not likely to be involved in a fire.

“I need to get down there,” I told Charlie and Lynne. “If I am delayed, ask the legislative leadership to delay the starting time of my appearance.”

It takes roughly seven minutes to drive from the Capitol to the Mansion. When in a hurry, security would turn on 2nd Avenue and drive toward G Street. As we got closer, I could see smoke. “That doesn’t look like a small tree fire on the second floor,” I said out loud.

As we passed G Street, I could see fire trucks and emergency equipment, with men operating in full emergency mode. We turned the corner and pulled into the parking lot of the adjacent Utah Arts Council building, where I could see Jackie standing with Westin. My anxiety level dropped immediately after seeing them safe. However, just as I stepped from the car, there was an explosion, with a shattering of glass and a roar of flames jumping skyward. A light snow began to fall as Jackie began to tell me what happened.

Jackie’s Firsthand Account

As she described it in a personal written account of the event:

“I planned to drive to the Capitol and join Mike at noon as he made his budget address to the legislature. Westin had settled in to watch a favorite video in the family room on the second floor, and I took a few moments to walk through the parlor and dining room on the first floor, checking on details for our next event.

Truly, the Mansion was in its finest with the colorful Christmas decorations—poinsettias lining the carved wooden staircase up to the third floor; garlands on the fireplace mantles; a large nativity scene; and the large, fresh blue spruce Christmas tree that had been cut and brought into the Grand Hall. The residence was spectacular.

Special tours had been going on, as the Mansion was open to the public every day of the week before to share its holiday grandeur. The glorious sights and sounds of Christmas music filled this impressive structure as musical groups performed carols during these tours and at the other public gatherings.

Judith George and Carol Bench, the Mansion office staff, informed me that two men had arrived for the purpose of checking the fire alarm system. Two other maintenance men had also come to do some work on the furnace in the basement. Lauralee Hill, Mansion assistant, was in the second-floor kitchen as I went to the master bedroom to change from my casual clothes into my suit before traveling up Capitol Hill.

“ There’s a fire! Run! “

I heard a strange sort of popping noise just outside my open bedroom door. The sound came from just below the large oval opening, which overlooked the first floor Grand Hall. I stepped out and looked over the wood railing to see a shocking sight—a fire racing up the twenty-two-foot Christmas tree approaching

the second level hallway. I instantly yelled, “Fire!” and started to run toward Westin. My mind raced, “What have those crazy fire alarm men done!”

I heard Carol Bench calling out from the first floor, “Get out, get out, get out!” As I ran toward the family room, I yelled, “Westin, Westin!” He came directly into the hall and I swooped him up. Hearing the commotion, Lauralee Hill ran into the hallway. “There’s a fire! Run!” I said to her.

The three of us hurried down the back stairway within seconds. At the bottom of the stairs, I handed Westin to Lauralee to quickly grab two coats from the closet. I threw one around Lauralee, wrapping it around them both. Then, we ran past the office reaching the back door of the Mansion, Judith, Carol, and the two men who had been on the first floor checking the alarm system, quickly fell in behind us, and I yanked on the door.

I pulled forcefully on the back door, but it would not budge. Intense suction of the air, affected by the flames—which had now burst upward from the tree past the first floor to the large, open, third-floor ceiling dome—caused a powerful backdraft. The two fire alarm technicians at the rear of our group quickly came forward and together were able to pull the door open. A loud whoosh of air blew by us as we ran out, and the door slammed shut with a bang.

We stood together in the parking lot looking in shock at the home when someone asked, “Is everyone out?” In just a moment, the two furnace repairmen who had been in the basement came out. Luckily, they had been near the back stairway of the Mansion, saw the smoke, and ran up the stairs and out the door.

We exchanged anxious words as smoke poured from the windows. Carol’s yells for us to get out quickly had alerted Judith, who in turn had placed a call to 911 before she joined us at the back door. Carol had been walking through the Grand Hall at the moment the

1 Dome

2 Grand Hall fireplace

3 Fire destroys grandfather clock in the Grand Hall.

4 Taylor looking through the oval

5 Firefighters and inspectors looking over the tree and source of fire..

fire actually started. She heard the popping noise and saw the sparks that ignited the tree. The speed with which the fire leapt up the tree made it impossible for her to get an extinguisher or do anything to stop the burst of flames exploding up the tall tree.

I asked Lauralee to take little Westin to her apartment. The frightening sight was distressing to adults and certainly much more so to a three-year-old.

Finally, the fire engines arrived and the men began their task.

Mike arrived at the scene and the group of us moved to the larger parking lot east of the Mansion to give the firefighters more space and for us to be at a safer distance. It was clear the fire was spreading throughout the home.”

The Kids

Watching his Disney video in a room on the north side of the building, Westin had heard his mother’s urgent calls. Running out to her, he saw the south side of the family quarters, where he shared a bedroom with Chase, erupt in flames.

“I remember loud pops and booms and pieces of wood just being shot up,” he recalled. “Where my room was, that was gone. If I had been in my room, I would’ve been trapped. But I happened to be in the farthest possible room.”

He remembers the scramble down the stairs with Jackie and Lauralee, the difficulty getting out the back door, and then congregating in the parking lot next door.

That is where I met up with Westin and Jackie and, gratefully, found them safe.

It was clear that news of this would spread quickly. Large crowds had amassed on the periphery, and news media were broadcasting the scene live. We were concerned our four older children, all at school, would hear the news, possibly in second-or-thirdhand distorted ways, and would have undue concerns about our safety. They needed to be with us, so I sent two members of the security

detail to retrieve them, one to East High and the other to Bonneville Elementary. We had previously established emergency protocols with the schools in case the kids needed to be quickly picked up, so within thirty minutes, all four joined us at the Arts Council building.

“ If I had been in my room, I would’ve been trapped.”

Taylor, then a sophomore at East High, was walking down a hallway at school when a friend of his brother slammed him in the arm and told him, “Your house is on fire.” Taylor then heard an announcement over the school public address system to come to the office and had “a premonition of what was about to happen.”

When Mike S. got to the office, school officials told them, “Everybody is safe. There has been an incident.” The office had a small television where the boys could see live news coverage showing smoke and flames billowing out of the Mansion.

“Oh boy,” Mike thought, as he and Taylor checked out of school and headed over. “I wouldn’t say it was traumatic. I think when you’re seventeen or however old I was, your brain just hasn’t fully developed. You don’t understand what could have happened to my mom and my little brother.”

Taylor recalled listening to an Eric Clapton song play on the radio as Mike drove and wondering to himself, “Is the house totaled?” Once at the scene, he remembers a fire department official tearing up as he informed the group how badly the building was charred.

Lee Perry, the UHP officer who first told me about the fire, picked up Chase and Anne Marie from Bonneville Elementary and brought them to join the family. Chase was struck by the number of emergency vehicles and the sea of flashing lights as they arrived. He saw Taylor, red-eyed in the parking lot. “I always looked to him,” Chase said, “so I knew, ‘Oh no, this is bad.’”

Perspective and Gratitude

Jackie and I drew them close. It was a moment when perspective benefitted all of us. “I said to them, “Everyone is safe. No one was hurt. Things can be replaced.” We all hugged each other.

When the fire was out, an official—I believe from the state fire marshal’s office—came over and gave a dreary report to the group. Though the building’s interior and contents were a total loss, we were heartened that the exterior walls still stood firm. The officer explained that the fire department had preplanned how to fight fires in certain buildings. In the Mansion’s case, part of the effort had been to build dams or berms inside the structure to direct the massive amounts of water needed to fight the fire outside, thereby protecting the integrity of the building from additional damage.

The fire official then invited me to go inside and view the extent of the damage with him. I asked each member of the family if they wanted me to bring anything out. Jackie needed her purse. Chase wanted a pair of shoes that Utah Jazz star Karl Malone had given him after he wore them in a game. The shoes were damaged, but not totally unsalvageable. Jackie’s purse and wallet were destroyed.

The house was still smoldering. The Christmas tree now looked like a twenty-two-foot stick man, scorched and devoid of any sign of life. The woodwork and floors were blackened; the gears and workings of the eight-foot grandfather clock in the Grand Hall had melted together; a wood-

carved statue of Neptune was completely charred. Gratefully, the framework of the home was intact. But what was not burned was melted, saturated with smoke, or both.

The chief explained how a fire like this works. In a dry tree, as the once-fresh pine in the Grand Hall had become, fire burns so quickly and so hot that once ignited, there is no way to stop a conflagration. Within forty-five seconds the fire was burning at four thousand degrees. I asked about the explosion I observed as I drove up. He said that fire needs oxygen to survive and goes in pursuit of it, and the fire had found a weakness—the windows—and blew them out looking for life-giving air.

Likewise, the chief said, that was why the door was sealed shut when Jackie tried to exit. It was a vacuum caused by the fire suctioning air from the interior rooms. The chief used a screwdriver to take the cover off a light switch. He showed me signs of smoke and heat under the screws, explaining that the fire was looking for oxygen even under the screws of the light socket.

I left the Mansion that day eternally grateful that no one was hurt, and tried to avoid thoughts of the tragedy that could have happened if the fire had occurred at a time when a hundred people were in the house. We were truly blessed.

The Aftermath

I still had work to do. Jackie and I had to meet with the media and answer their questions. At that moment, there were more questions than answers, but people needed to know that we were all right and feeling resilient. There was a universal concern, of course, for our young family. We felt the love and prayers of people who had extended both on our behalf. And once we knew the family was safe, there was a palpable calm.

There were three things that needed my immediate attention. I called the security team together and said, “I’m going to need your help.” I gave one the assignment to find a place for us to stay. Second, we needed clothes and basic supplies. I took credit cards out of my wallet and gave one to Jackie, since

1 Structural repair to dome

2 Painter working on the large ballroom turret

3 Gold leaf being applid to decorative border

4 Stencil work for walls redrawn

5 The process of rebuilding the detailed spindles of the staircase banister

Photos courtesy of Ellie Sonntag

1 2 3

hers were melted by the fire; the remaining cards went to highway patrolmen. Jackie then divided the children up into teams, saying, “Let’s each think what we would need if we were packing a bag for a trip.” One trooper took off with the older kids to shop for necessities; another went with Jackie and the younger children. Two days earlier I had dropped off two suits and a few shirts at the dry cleaners, so I asked one of the detail to stop and pick them up. Lastly, I had a budget address to give at the State Capitol. We agreed we would all meet back up at a hotel to be determined later, and we started the task of putting our lives back together.

A couple hours later, at two p.m., I walked into the House of Representatives chamber for the budget address. Legislative leaders had offered to cancel it, but keeping the commitment seemed like the right way to convey that everything was okay. It also was a chance to express my gratitude in a public way and lift the mood with a bit of humor. I said, “Thank you for deferring our meeting. About 11:30 this morning I learned about a need to amend the state budget.”

People immediately understood my light reference to a serious situation. I reported that we were all safe, and that I had been assured that the structure was insured properly, in a way that would cover repairing the house and maintaining the historical integrity of the building. I finished the budget address and went immediately to find the family.

I was notified that we would be staying at the Marriott University Park Hotel in Research Park at the University of Utah. Then, within a few days, we moved into a very nice condominium in American Towers in downtown Salt Lake City.

We stayed there for about three months, including the Christmas of 1993. Many of the children have remembered that as one of their favorite Christmas memories. My aunt and uncle—Jane and John Piercey—brought us a Christmas tree. We had Christmas Eve dinner at Lamb’s Grill across the street from American Towers. And it became a poignant and cheery time, uncomplicated by many of the more commercial aspects of the holiday, because all we had were each other.

But we did need a more permanent home. Jackie

and I had leased our family home on Laird Avenue to a couple upon moving into the Mansion nearly a year earlier, and we decided to approach them about buying the lease out. As it turned out, they were mulling a return to Las Vegas, where they had lived previously. The payment from us made that possible, and we were able to move home. At the time, we didn’t know how long the Mansion would take to restore, or how we would feel about things when the restoration was completed. However, we knew for now that moving back to the house on Laird Avenue was the right thing to do.

So, we moved back. The security team built a small office in the basement of the house and put up a large communications tower so that our home could be monitored day and night from the Capitol building. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I imagined the protective team there watching early in the morning as I dodged onto the front porch in my underwear to get the newspaper. But, we were back living an extraordinary experience while surrounded by the feel of ordinary life.

Restoration and Reconstruction

The Mansion’s return to life from the fire, which was determined to have been caused by an improperly spliced electrical wire in the base of the tree

“ My thoughts were how in the world were we going to put it back together. ”

in the Grand Hall, would take two-and-a-half years and nearly eight million dollars to complete.

The Salt Lake Fire Department had taken the first immediate steps toward mitigation when they placed dams in the building while fighting the fire to prevent water from further damaging floors and woodwork.

Further damage was averted by nightfall that evening by state employees from the Division of Facilities Construction and Management (DFCM)

1 Informal dining room after fire restoration

2 Cherubs decorate the Mansion, and these were remolded after fire damage

3 Formal dining room after restoration

4 Intricate column restored in the Grand Hall. Stencil of wall in background was all redone.

5 View of grand staircase from above after restoration

Photos courtesy of Ellie Sonntag

and mitigation contractor Utah Disaster Kleenup, who moved quickly to restore heat to the building and begin vacuuming up water, drying out the Mansion, and topically cleaning windows, woodwork, and other surfaces of smoke and soot.

Officials next had to assess the extent of damage and determine a plan going forward. The assessment team included DFCM, the State Fire Marshal’s Office, and the Division of State History. Their consensus was that the structural integrity of the building was good, with enough original materials retained, to warrant reconstruction.

Going forward, the basic philosophy was to preserve the building’s original craftsmanship to the extent possible; replace original features lost in the fire; and clean, repair, and restore items that were salvageable. Additionally, the effort expanded to make the Mansion more user-friendly as an actual residence to governors and their families, and to modernize the building with seismic upgrades and a comprehensive updating of heating, ventilating, cooling, electrical, lighting, computer/communications, and fire suppression systems. Other changes were made to allow better exiting in the event of a future fire, which was done with hallway and corridor reconfigurations rather than the addition of a new stairway. Also, the family quarters were made more private and secure.

Max J. Smith and Associates was selected as the project’s architect and Culp Construction as the general contractor. A number of specialist firms were brought in as the work continued, week after week, month after month.

“My thoughts were how in the world were we going to put it back together,” Fred Fuller, an architect with DFCM, told the Provo Daily Herald newspaper about the day he first surveyed the destruction at the Mansion.3 Beyond the charred interior, smoke and soot had permeated spaces within interior walls and had to be cleaned. More than eighty

percent of all plaster had to be removed from the Mansion’s interior walls to expose all the framing materials of the building.

Soot and smoke remediation alone took ten months and one million dollars, according to Culp Construction. An innovative new process called sponge blasting—which shoots small particles of highly absorbent sponge at high velocity onto contaminated surfaces—was employed, along with grit blasting, to remove soot. Ozone generators also were used for deodorization before walls were replastered.

The restoration team took the building interior apart and documented all surfaces and elements for restoration or replication. Then, over time, the interior was put back together. Throughout the process, photographs and historical records guided the work.

Among the specialists called in for highly skilled artisanal restoration was Agrell and Thorpe, Ltd., a California wood-carving company.

Woodcarving and plasterwork were unique architectural features of the Mansion. The original French white oak carvings were of extraordinary quality, crafted in Europe at the turn of the century by German or Austrian artisans. The fire destroyed most of the carvings, with the worst damage occurring in the Grand Hall where the Christmas tree stood.

The burned carvings sent to Agrell and Thorpe to replicate included a large volume of intricately carved balustrades, newel posts, figures, capitals, columns, and egg-and-dart molding. The company’s master carver, Ian Agrell, described the Mansion carvings replication as the largest wood carving project undertaken anywhere in the world in the previous ten years. The company’s twelve craftsmen spent nearly twenty-thousand hours over two years recreating the mansion’s original carvings—by hand, just as it was originally done.4

Another unique restoration involved the golden

4. “Case Study: Utah Governor’s Mansion Fire,” Agrellcarving.com , https://agrellcarving.com/2016/07/12/case-study-utah-governorsmansion-fire/

3. Donald Meyers. “Governor’s mansion remodeled, restored to Victorian splendor,” Provo Daily Herald , Utah State Archives (No date is mentioned, but context indicates this was August 1996.)

Photos courtesy of Ellie Sonntag

dome centered over the balcony of the second and third floors above the staircase. Remaining sections of it were removed and carefully rebound, and the Baltimore firm of Hayles and Howe used historic photos and drawings of the charred pieces to cast a replica of the original dome. After the new dome was assembled, craftsmen from EverGreene Painting Studios in New York City gave it a brilliant golden hue.

Back to Life

It had cost Thomas Kearns $350,000 to build his mansion at the turn of the twentieth century. The $7.8 million-dollar restoration brought the home back to its original 1902 style, with twenty-first century upgrades.

Work concluded in mid-1996, and the magnificent building officially reopened to tours on July 29, 1996, as Utah was celebrating its centennial-year anniversary of statehood.

“This is one of the most outstanding historic restorations in the country,” the Park Record newspaper quoted me as saying on July 6, 1996. “The painstaking work of the many artisans and craftsmen to restore this architectural treasure is remarkable. This is one of the great treasures of the state of Utah. Its reopening is a grand moment in our Centennial celebration.”5 Our family had been settled back in our Laird home for two years, but there was great happiness to have the Mansion restored to glory—and back in our lives.

We used it regularly for meetings, ceremonies, and grand events. Guests, both of the family and the state, stayed there, and the building was filled

with light and life again for holidays and special occasions, such as the Winter Olympics in 2002.

“ This is one of the most outstanding historic restorations in the country.”

And ten years after the fire, a First Family moved back in. I had accepted an appointment from President George W. Bush to head the Environmental Protection Agency and was succeeded as governor by Lt. Governor Olene Walker, who was sworn in as Utah’s first woman governor on November 5, 2003. She and her husband, Myron, moved in that fall.

A few weeks later, she invited KSL-TV over to see the building decked out for Christmas and told them of her plans to celebrate the holiday there with six of her seven children, and twenty-five grandchildren. Christmas trees sparkled throughout the building, lit up in all its finery.

“It is beautiful,” Olene said. “And I didn’t even have to put a string of lights up.”

5. “Public invited to tour newly restored governor’s mansion.” Park Record , Utah State Archives, 6 July 1996.

08

Staying Healthy as Governor

In my sixteen years of public service, the time missed because of sickness or medical issues is almost nil. Yes, occasionally I’d get a nasty cold or have the flu, but given the number of hands I shook every day and the public places I navigated, one can only conclude that I must have developed world-class antibodies. For the most part, I was able to work through such episodes or work remotely for a few hours. Overall, I was enormously blessed with good health.

Migraine Headaches

However, there were a few health issues I’ve still had to deal with, one of them being migraines. Since I was fourteen years old, I have had periodic migraine headaches. They typically occurred two to four times a year, though fortunately the frequency has subsided as I’ve gotten older.

My migraines are characterized by the full range of typical symptoms recognized by any migraine sufferer. I can always tell when a migraine headache is coming on: The first signal is flashing lights within my visual field. It’s like they are perceived, not explicitly seen. Then there is a period where my vision is incomplete. For example, I can look at a license plate and while I know there are letters and numbers, I can’t make sense of them. My capacity to formulate sentences also begins to degrade.

Generally, I then move into a period of nausea and intense pain. While sometimes medication helps, other times it does no good. Experience has taught me that when the signals start, I have about forty-five minutes to get to a dark place with an ice pack and pillow over my head. If I hadn’t been through it so many times it would be quite scary.

“ Overall, I was enormously blessed with good health.”

For four to six hours the pain is an intense throbbing along the forehead, inside my eye sockets. The pain slowly subsides into a general head throb. By the next day, it feels what I imagine a hangover to feel like. Within twenty-four hours I’m back to normal. A full-blown migraine will cause me to be out of commission for eight to twelve hours.

In the summer of 1993, I had a migraine episode. A doctor friend of mine had suggested a new medication and I was more than willing to try it. He also suggested a sleeping pill to help me just sleep through it. So, I went to the living quarters at the mansion and took the medication as directed.

Either the combination of the medicines was bad or the dosage was wrong, but it simply knocked me out. I slept the rest of that day and through most of the next one. Apparently, I woke up periodically to eat, but I have no memory of it.

Finally, the third day, I woke up early, resolved to go about my normal schedule because I had a big day of activities, including meetings at the Capitol, a speech to a water-use group in Delta, and a ninety-minute appearance before the student body at the BYU Marriott School of Business.

I have very sketchy memories of that day. I remember deciding to walk from the Governor’s Mansion to the Capitol in an effort to clear my head. What I don’t remember is the speech I surprised my staff with on water being the “most important issue we were facing today.” Nor can I remember a word of the ninety-minute interaction I had at the Marriott School. Apparently, the Marriott School appearance provided a pretty good speech. However, the

medication was still in my system and affected my short-term memory. Luckily, by the next day I had returned to normal. Two things should be said about the experience: First, it was the last time I ever took that medication. Second, members of my staff that were with me still tease me about the “Water is Supreme” speech.

Sleep Apnea

Early in my second term in office, I began to feel a lot of fatigue. I felt emotionally and physically depleted. I was also feeling less patient and found myself responding to things in a way that was uncharacteristic of me, and noticed that many mornings I would wake up still exhausted. In addition, I often found my wife sleeping in another room. She said it was because of my snoring.

I began to research these symptoms and concluded they were classical signs of sleep apnea. I went through a sleep study and the diagnosis was confirmed.

Sleep apnea is a common condition. When the brain goes into REM or deep sleep, the soft pallet relaxes but leaves enough space for air to get transported to the lungs. In a person with sleep apnea, the air is closed off, and within thirty to forty-five seconds the brain is signaling, “Hey buddy, wake up—I need oxygen.” While I wasn’t becoming conscious, my brain was going through this cycle over two hundred times a night. No wonder I was exhausted when I awoke. The feeling of depletion I was feeling was a function of sleep deprivation.

Gratefully there was a solution, a fairly simple medical device called a CPAP. It simply blows some air against the soft pallet, keeping it from collapsing over the airway, allowing the wearer to sleep without interruption. It made a big difference in my life and I began to feel much better. Since that time, I have worn a CPAP every night. I carry it wherever I travel.

I have since become a real zealot on the subject of sleep health, and while I was Secretary of Health and Human Services I promoted sleep health and did what I could to drive additional research. I played a role in getting additional technology approved by the FDA. I mention this in my

1 Utah Jazz center, Mark Eaton at a celebrity softball game at the Salt Lake Buzz ballpark

2 Golfing with Vice President Dan Quayle

3 Mike with Jack Nicklaus at a First Tee Foundation event at Rose Park Golf Course.

4 Mike and Rich McKeown playing golf

5 Lunch time power walk with Al Christensen (security) up City Creek Canyon.

history, primarily because the condition clearly has a genetic connection. My father has it, as do a couple of my brothers. It is a life-altering condition with an easy solution.

Weight Management

While not the primary cause of my sleep apnea, weight gain was a contributing factor. I fought this battle throughout my time in public service—and since. It is easy to see the evidence in pictures taken during this period. During my time as governor, my weight varied by as much as thirty pounds, and I made the cycle more than once. However, I kept working at it, and with the exception of two or three periods when my weight crept up, I maintained a fairly steady range.

While modulating my eating patterns was a primary component of the struggle, keeping a good exercise regimen was also important. I had to vary my routine to achieve regularity. One of my favorite modes of exercise was walking. For several years, I would calendar a walk in City Creek Canyon or to Ensign Peak. To make it productive, I would schedule to have a staff member with me or invite a person who was looking for an appointment. The

news media picked up on this and did a few stories on the governor’s power walks. It became a quasi-status symbol to be invited along. Having someone come along made the time go by quicker for me and I enjoyed the change of pace. The security detail always came along and I think they enjoyed it too. The Ensign Peak climb was serious exercise.

When it got cold, I would turn to indoor exercise, usually in the mornings at a gym. At one point, I started going to the Alta Club in the morning about 6:30 a.m. I worked with a personal trainer several times a week and then would reward myself with a short massage. I would stay at the club for breakfast, read the paper, and then dress for work. I would not schedule my first appointment until 9 a.m. It was a great routine, and I ended up doing a similar pattern when I was secretary at Health and Human Services

Golf Therapy

My most passionate hobby and exercise during the time of my service was golf. Simply stated, I love golf. It is hard to overstate the amount of pleasure the game has provided me over the years. It is not only a form of exercise; it is the best mental

View of Capitol from City Creek Canyon

diversion I have. Golf is one of the very few activities I engage in where I am able to stay in the present.

Often when I get into to bed at night, I will reconstruct my last round of golf shot-by-shot. The diversion causes my mind to shift into another gear and I can fall asleep.

Looking back over my schedule for the years I served as governor, it is clear to me that I did not deprive myself of playing opportunities. I have a lot of friends that play golf and we worked at finding ways to get out.

Historically, most of the country clubs in Utah grant the governor some kind of special playing privilege. So, I was able to play most of the better courses in Utah. I frequented Jeremy Ranch, Oakridge, and the Salt Lake Country Club the most. I chose those clubs because they were convenient and I loved the courses. I have friends that play each of them as well.

Typically, I would play at the end of the day during the summer when the days are long. I adore playing golf in the evening when there is nobody else around. I would take one of my sons with me or just go by myself for some solitude to unwind. I would start around 6:30 or 7:00 p.m. and play what I called “fire drill golf.” I could play nine holes in forty-five minutes easily that way.

One late summer evening, Rich McKeown and I had slipped out for nine holes at the Salt Lake Country Club. We were on the seventh tee. I hit a perfect drive, right down the center of the fairway. Previously, I had noticed a group of kids sitting on the back lawn of a home that abuts the course. Suddenly one of them bolted across the fairway, picked up my ball, and ran off. The rest of the children scattered as well.

So, I drove to the spot where my ball had been and dropped another one so I could continue playing. As we stood on the next tee, I noticed the boy and his friends had reassembled. I hit my drive on the eighth hole and then quietly slipped back around and drove up to the group in a way they wouldn’t notice. Then I simply drove up behind

the kid who had grabbed my golf ball without him seeing me. When he turned around, he knew he had been caught. I said, “So, would you like me to autograph that ball?”

Long pause.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re what’s-his-butt aren’t you?”

Fourteen-year-olds can get away with that kind of thing.

I was often invited to play in various charity tournaments during the summer. I especially looked forward to the pro-am that accompanied professional tournaments. Somehow the governor always drew a good player as a partner, and I played golf with some of the most notable personalities in golf history.

I played one year with Arnold Palmer as my pro-am partner at a senior tour event at Park Meadows golf course. He is such a wonderful guy, personable, kind, and fun. At one point during the round, I hit into a sand trap and Arnold Palmer noted something about the way I was navigating it that provided an opportunity for him to teach me. He got down in the trap with me and gave me a short lesson. When we were done, he grabbed the rake and started to rake the trap. I protested, but he said, “Let me do it.” I have to admit I have enjoyed telling people that Arnold Palmer raked my sand trap.

One additional story about my round with Palmer: We won the tournament! It was great fun. The next day, I couldn’t play but I ran into to him at an event surrounding the tournament. I said, “Mr. Palmer, I guess you know we won!” He replied, “I know, I loved it… I haven’t won in a long time.”

Another year I played with Lee Trevino. He had a saying for every situation. I remember a compliment he gave me—whether deserved or not—that was memorable. “Governor,” he said, “that swing was a smooth as Dairy Queen.”

I also played with Johnny Miller multiple times. He is a golf genius, and always teaching. One memorable conversation I had with him stayed in my memory. We were talking about Tiger Woods, who was just emerging as a dominant young player. Johnny said, “Tiger’s swing puts such torque on his

1 Mike doing business on the golf course.

2 Mike with Alan Workman at Wasatch Mountain State Park

3 Perfect day for golf

4 Mike Leavitt and Johnny Miller playing at Jeremy Ranch.

knee and back that there is no way he isn’t going to have physical trouble at some point.” Johnny called it. Years later, that is exactly what happened to Tiger.

“ Governor, that swing was as smooth as Dairy Queen.”

I didn’t always get the best players in pro-ams. Hot Rod Hundley, the Utah Jazz broadcaster, would host a celebrity tournament. He recruited former and current NBA players to come as celebrities, and each foursome was assigned a celebrity. On the first hole, I complained to one of the other players in our foursome that somehow, we didn’t get a celebrity. My partner said, “Governor, I have bad news for you. It’s supposed to be you.” We both felt cheated.

I was able to play some wonderful golf courses as governor. I played Pebble Beach, Cypress Point, and Torrey Pines.

One night I was at a dinner in Salt Lake City honoring Steve Wynn, owner of the Mirage Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. He had made a large donation to the Moran Eye Center at the University of Utah. During dinner he asked if I would like to play his golf course. I had heard about his golf course— Shadow Creek in Las Vegas. It is one of the most exclusive courses in the world, made available only to his friends and important customers of his hotel and casino. I told him I’d love to play and he gave me instructions on how to arrange to play on it.

For the next couple of years, after the legislative session was over, I would arrange to take some time for an outing at Shadow Creek. A couple of times I took my son Mike and his friend Ben Curtis. Other times Charlie Johnson came along, and once my brothers Mark and Eric came with me.

Golfing at Shadow Creek is unlike golf anywhere else I’ve played. First of all, it was a spectacular course, literally carved out of the Nevada

Carlsbad Retreat, Rich McKeown and Mike taking practice shots

desert. The trees were imported as mature palms from a tree farm. (Wynn bought the entire farm for that purpose. They transplanted more than ten thousand trees I’m told.) The water features were like the fountains at the large hotels, with artificial rocks that looked like the real thing. Birds and wildlife abounded.

When you stopped for lunch, there was no menu. You just told them what you wanted. It was rare to see another foursome on the course; back then it was reserved for the high-rollers who spent hundreds of thousands of dollars per visit at the casino.

I came to understand how unique the experience was when I had a conversation with Governor Bob Miller of Nevada. I stopped once to see him while I was in Las Vegas, and he asked why I was there. I told him about playing Shadow Creek the previous three days. His response made me feel a bit conspicuous. He said, “You asked Steve Wynn to play Shadow Creek three days in a row?!” His expression said it all.

09

The Media

Anyone who has ever clashed with the news media would understand the old adage from Mark Twain: “Never pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel.” It is a warning that speaks to the role of the press as monolithic, antagonistic, and influential. For better or worse, news organizations have the ability to reach millions of people and shape public opinion.

Thanks to the internet and social media, everyone has “ink.” The news industry has experienced seismic changes over the past

couple decades that have disrupted its business models, standards, and guiding precepts. Development of the internet was the most tectonic, and this transformation coincided with my time in public service. Hence, I want to describe how interactions with the media were conducted during the period of my service as governor, even though I fully understand it is different now.

Our nation’s founders understood that an independent press was a vanguard against corruption and unchecked power, and so they enshrined freedom of the press in the First Amendment of the

Constitution. We’ve upheld that freedom as a nation ever since, throughout wars, cultural upheavals, and other periods of crisis and high tension.

The Watergate scandal that toppled President Richard Nixon was a zenith for the press. Practitioners of the journalistic craft saw themselves as intrepid, uncompromised seekers and arbiters of The Truth. Detached from partisanship or ideology, only they could fix an impartial eye on government and the powerful and hold them accountable—or so they believed.

Over time, news organizations have become powerful themselves, as well as partisan and increasingly similar in thought, assuming a mantle of moral superiority over those they cover. Today, many are unmistakable advocates or propagandists, and the plummeting numbers for public trust in the media reflect that decline. Truth and objectivity, once the righteous foundations of the profession, became redefinable, even expendable. Free speech, the essential right ensuring the profession’s existence, is situational now—it depends on who is doing the speaking. Astonishingly, it is the press itself that now seeks to censor and silence dissenting voices.

A number of news reporters are undoubtedly still honest people doing their best. It is others who have diminished and sometimes debased the entire industry. The other problem is that the national press does not know the America outside its coastal enclaves, yet hometown news organizations have struggled to stay in business or cater to a shrinking reader or viewer base.

Local “old-school” reporters such as Rod Decker, Lee Davidson, and Lois Collins epitomized the justthe-facts workhorse tradition and banked enormous reservoirs of respect and trust. That class of journalists is dwindling as more and more reporters take sides, whether for an ideology, a party, or a narrative. This trend is not entirely about the character of people doing the reporting; it reflects a change in the audience. Today’s journalistic audience rewards the behavior, and hence news organizations fill the demand.

There were indicators of that when I was in office, although the industry’s professional standards and codes of ethics still held sway and could rein in blatant partisanship or egregious bias. Objectivity, however, was the first casualty of all the change.

Covering the Governor

I regularly crossed paths with those who chose journalism as a calling to serve the public as a watchdog. Others liked the action or the influence the profession afforded them. Some truly believed they were “speaking truth to power,” as another of the industry’s tropes—purloined from the Quakers—goes.

Regardless of ideology, I’ve found that I am generally treated better by people I treat well. This is true of the media. I realized early on that part of my job as governor was to make their job easier. They needed stories; we needed them to tell our story. It was as simple and symbiotic as that.

Our general policy was to provide the media with easy access, particularly the reporters covering us daily. I’m confident I did an average of three or four news interviews every day, probably ten thousand in total during my time as governor. Some days, there could literally be fifteen or twenty interviews, depending on whether a hot issue or event was unfolding. A very high percentage of my time was spent with media folks. We organized our office to be respectful of their deadlines. Not just because we were nice, but because it was in our mutual interest.

There is a subset of the media which is overtly hostile, usually as a result of opposing ideological agendas. To the degree I was able to avoid them, I did. It was better for my outlook. To the extent I couldn’t, I have found navigating those relationships with skill and care is necessary. Learning how to find the balance between overreacting and demonstrating we would not be pushed too far was a learning process. Vicki Varela, a former journalist who managed these relationships, was constantly refining our approach. It was all part of the world we were in, and that included interactions and coverage that struck us as completely unwarranted or unfair.

Just one example would be useful in describing the interplay that happened daily. During my first year as governor, KTVX television reporter

1 Rod Decker, KUTV news reporter

2 Carol Mikita, KSL news reporter

3 Ted Koppel interviewing Governor Leavitt about the Grand Staircase National Monument, Nightline

4 Rod Decker speaking with Dixie Leavitt.

5 Mike Wallace and Mike Leavitt doing a 60 Minutes interview about Olympic Scandal

Chris Vanocur asked one day for a one-on-one interview. I did it sitting at my desk in the ceremonial office. Minutes into it, Vanocur was off and running in a direction other than what he claimed as his subject to secure the interview. It was an ambush, with him asking misleading questions about a campaign supporter and friend of mine. Caught by surprise, I don’t recall handling it very well. I was angry, embarrassed—and on camera the whole time.

I declared Chris persona non grata in our office afterward and refused further interviews for a time. He, in turn, did a story about being shut out of the Governor’s Office. The second story we deserved; the first one we didn’t. Neither of us benefited from this stalemate. Chris might have felt it burnished his intrepid newsman persona, although the professionals in the business look down on contrivances that make the reporter the story. For me, the episode had turned into a mini drama not worth the governor’s time, but I learned important lessons.

Ultimately, I invited Chris up to the office to talk it through. I told him that I thought the first interview was unfair and that he did not need to ambush me. If he had a hard question, he should ask it. In retrospect, this is one I should have left to Vicki Varela. I allowed myself to get too caught up in the irritation.

Deputy of Communications

Vicki was excellent in managing these situations. She was calm but took no nonsense from reporters. They respected and liked her. She knew their business, having come from it herself, and also knew their bosses. As a matter of policy, we rarely called editors or publishers, but it was important that reporters knew we could. They also knew they needed a relationship with Vicki to do their jobs successfully. I came to understand how fortunate I was to have Vicki in that position.

Vicki held the role of deputy for communication through the first term and picked up additional duties as a deputy chief of staff during the second term. She left to become a partner in a public relations firm, later joined Kennecott Land, and went on to head the Utah Office of Tourism.

For roughly a year after Vicki left, her deputy Therese Anderson assumed the role of press secretary. Therese had a unique capacity to write in my voice. She moved to Australia and married, and the deputy position opened up again.

On the face of it, an economist from the State Office of Planning and Budget would not be the most conventional candidate to take over as spokesman and communications director. Natalie Gochnour, however, turned out to be an inspired choice.

Natalie grew up with brothers and is an exceptional athlete. Each year, the legislature would challenge the Governor’s Office during the session to a basketball game. While it was all in fun, it always turned into a more serious effort once the game started. Natalie could play, and she first caught my eye not as an economist but as a basketball player.

We had enough meetings that I knew she was also a thoughtful professional. I had been asked to appear on a one-hour television show to discuss a series of issues I didn’t feel well prepared to discuss, so I asked Vicki to arrange someone from the Planning and Budget Office to go with me to the program.

“ Never pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel. -Mark Twain.”

On the way over, I was impressed with the way Natalie briefed me, so I asked her to join me in the interview. She did and was terrific in that setting— clear and confident, with a natural sense of presence.

Not too long after, Rich McKeown and I were reviewing prospects to determine who could replace Therese. We had pursued all of the traditional candidates (from the media industry) for this role, but none had worked out. Finally, one Saturday morning, Rich was listing off names from an electronic calendar when he came across Natalie Gochnour’s. He said, “The next communications director is on my screen.” When I heard the name, I agreed.

I had witnessed Natalie’s communication skills and was convinced that an economist with her gift of articulation would master the media business. My hunch was correct, and her analytic skills only enhanced the arrangement. Over the next decade we navigated the Olympics, three more years as governor, and then two cabinet positions in the George W. Bush Administration. Natalie was highly respected throughout the Bush Administration and became one of the most skillful communication professionals I’ve ever worked with.

Having a relationship of confidence with a spokesperson is extremely important. Through the entire time I was governor, we had a firm rule that the only person able to speak for the governor to the media was the deputy for communications. The chief of staff did not speak for the governor unless it was by specific design and agreement, with the deputy for communication present. We made that clear to the media so they could not make an end run and claim a staff member said things.

Media Changes

At the beginning of my service, newspapers were still viable businesses, cable news had not yet begun to erode network and local news, and the internet did not yet exist. We did not have to worry about social media because there wasn’t any.

The state had two large influential daily newspapers that were fierce competitors: the Deseret News, owned by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and The Salt Lake Tribune, founded in the 1870s as a counterbalance to the Church. Both had aggressive State Capitol bureaus with multiple reporters covering state government. The Associated Press had a desk at the Capitol, and the Ogden Standard-Examiner was prominent in Weber County and had a presence in the Capitol as well. Provo, Logan, and southern Utah also had daily newspapers with influence in those areas. Every one of these dailies had editorial pages that expressed and shaped local opinions. There were close to thirty weekly newspapers that published weekly, and these were widely read in rural Utah.

Television stations KSL, KUTV, and KTVX were the local television stations affiliated with the CBS, NBC, and ABC national networks, and the local stations had aggressive and competitive newsrooms, each with dedicated Capitol Hill reporters. Likewise, at least five major radio news organizations covered state government every day.

If we had a major breaking story and called a news conference at the Capitol, within two hours we could gather twenty reporters with serious news reach.

State’s comprehensive emergency management center during a briefing. From left: Unknown, Mike Leavitt, John Hollenhorst (KSL), Rod Decker (KUTV) and Chris Vanocur (KTVX).

Comparing the media environment in Utah nearly thirty years ago with where I perceive it today is almost like describing rotary phones to the smartphone generation. The changes have been that dramatic, encompassing not just the technology, delivery, and consumption of news but the structure and survival of the news business itself.

The driver of change has been the internet and the way people consume news. In 1993, our family received The Salt Lake Tribune on our porch in the morning and the Deseret News in the evening, though the Deseret News changed to a morning paper in 2003. Most subscribers were partial to one paper or the other. The “Trib” was more popular with people who were Democrat and not members of the Church, and the “D.News” catered to the Republicans and Church audience. Both were good papers. They had received an anti-trust exemption allowing them to print their papers on the same presses and to sell advertising in both papers jointly through an entity called the Newspaper Agency Corporation. It was a mechanism that kept both papers healthy. However, they were bitter competitors in the newsroom. One of the most important duties of the deputy for communication was acting as a referee between the reporters for the two papers. If we gave one a story on the timetable for one paper in advance of the other, there had to be a payback, and the two newspapers kept track.

Of the two newspapers, the Tribune had the healthiest readership and made more money. It was a very successful business enterprise. The Deseret News was profitable but struggled to grow its subscriptions. During the ensuing 20 years, things changed. The Deseret News reshaped its operation, integrating their newspaper, television and radio assets. The Tribune came very close to failing several times until it was somewhat rescued by the Jon Huntsman family. This mirrored national news industry trends.

The internet began to change the news habits of consumers. I am a good example; my primary source of news is the Internet. I have not subscribed to a physical newspaper for more than a decade. I read both the Deseret News and The Salt Lake Tribune online every day and check for updates

during the day. I use news aggregation services that collect articles from hundreds of sources and package them for me based on my use and interest patterns, which the aggregators know from their own algorithms. The only cash I pay for news are subscriptions to the Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, Washington Post, and The Salt Lake Tribune. When I do read from a physical newspaper, it is even more unusual for me to read something in it that I have not already seen online.

“ To me, there is something almost magical about having words on a page.”

In other words, I have increased my expectations of immediacy and newspapers have lost my subscription revenue. Advertisers, in turn, have shifted their ad buys to follow the readers and viewers. The result is that newspapers are dying. The Deseret News is alive because its parent company, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, views the paper as an important voice and subsidizes it. The Tribune is on the verge of economic death all the time. As its circulation contracted, the newspaper underwent ownership changes and painful staff layoffs. Still not enough, the paper became a non-profit organization, appealing to the public for funding.

Every other daily paper in the state is now produced by much a smaller staff as well. The days of reporters who specialize in state government are gone. The days of citizens looking to the newspapers as their primary source of news are gone, too.

In the 1990s, every television and major radio station had robust local news operations that covered the State Capitol with a dedicated reporter. Not true today.

The point of all this is that during my time as governor we had a co-dependent relationship with the media. They needed us, and we needed them. Part of our job was “feeding the beast” every day with stories. We knew they had to produce a story

and the easier we made it, the sooner they could get the story written and filed.

Likewise, we had messages we wanted to communicate. We knew that television reporters needed pictures. So, we created events where there were good visuals and sound around which they could build their stories.

One day our story was that Robert Grow, the chair of Envision Utah, a collaborative community-planning organization we had supported, was going on a mission for the Church and we wanted to communicate that the organization would continue with our support. I had appointed Jon Huntsman Jr. as the new chairman. In order to create pictures for television, I invited Jon to accompany me on my daily walk and we told the news media the route we would travel so they could take pictures. One station asked if I would wear a microphone so they could pick up audio.

As we walked down a street in Salt Lake’s Avenues district, I noticed a cameraman way off in the distance. I knew they would appreciate something other than two people walking, so I stopped to pick up some garbage can lids off the ground and place them on the cans nearby. As I did, I said to Jon, forgetting that the microphone was on, something like, “Let’s give the cameraman some footage he can use tonight.”

Sure enough, that was the footage they used, but they also used my voice predicting their use of it. It was a way of saying, “We cooperate but don’t appreciate you manipulating us.”

Today, political figures and news organizations interact much differently. Social media gives elected officials the capacity to reach followers and constituents directly. Officeholders now offer their own headlines and updates on Facebook pages and YouTube channels. They churn out pronouncements and comments on Twitter and use Instagram to update their whereabouts with pictures and video. One misstep or ill-chosen word can go viral or be exploited by opponents. News is constant and immediate, and no longer a commodity that is owned, gate-kept and parceled out to the masses solely by the news industry.

The mediums of conveyance are different now, but the job of conveying a clear message that is consistent with the objectives of the governor and informative to constituencies is still one of the core jobs an administration must accomplish to succeed. We were very deliberate in planning our messaging; we sought visual ways to illustrate our points. It was a remarkable platform.

Social media has provided office holders with tools that allow them to bypass the traditional media. However, social media almost always springs from an advocacy, not objectivity. The absence of knowledgeable reporters who know the issues and have access to facts is a loss in American democracy.

10

Speech Writing and Delivery

I have not kept a record of the speeches I have given over the past thirty years. For sheer curiosity’s sake, I wish I had. I have given thousands of speeches ranging from informal greetings at small gatherings to major speeches like State of the State or inaugural addresses. I have given policy speeches, technical speeches, commercial speeches, church speeches, commencement speeches, patriotic speeches, campaign speeches, etc.

I have spoken to audiences in more than sixty countries and had my words interpreted into more than twenty languages. The topics covered a wide range and had an equally broad array of objectives. How many, and which ones, did any good? That seems the best measure of a speech’s value—what objectives were furthered, what improvements were made, and whose lives changed for the better. A little, or a lot? It’s hard to know.

Speechmaking was certainly an important, visible aspect of being governor. The thousands of speeches I gave as governor—and afterward—fit into four basic categories: (1) formal written addresses for a specific audience on an appointed occasion; (2) talking points with quotes; (3) bullet-point outlines often personalized and polished on the fly; and (4) offthe-cuff speeches covering very well-known subject matter.

The way I approach each of the four types of speeches have one thing in common—storytelling. Nearly every speech I give, long or short, formal or informal, written or off-the-cuff begins with a story, or gets to one quickly.

Audiences are engaged by stories and taught by stories. Starting with a story allows me to settle into a conversational mode, which is my style. Stories need not be long; in fact, the best stories leave texture and detail to the imagination of the listener.

Early in my first campaign I encountered Chuck Sellier, a best-selling author as well as a movie and television producer. He volunteered to do my television and radio commercials. In the process Chuck taught me, or at least explained to me, why stories are so important. “The goal,” he said, “is to tell stories that reach people in a ’guttural’ way.” By guttural he meant people would feel the emotions inside, and when they feel something they intuitively begin to fill in all kinds of details drawn from their own experiences.

The first time I worked with Chuck we talked for hours looking for the right story that would convey to people the essence of who I am. I told him about a lesson my Grandpa Okerlund taught me about sticking with reality.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s the story we need.”

For the next two hours we worked through how to tell a fairly long story in the twenty-eight seconds available in a television commercial. This is what we came up with:

There was a farmer down the road from my grandpa who had more land than he could afford and a new John Deere tractor.

I said, “Grandpa, how can he do that?

“Mike,” my grandpa said, “If you stick with what is real and right, we will be farming long after he’s been repossessed.” That’s exactly what happened. A few months later his new tractor was gone and we were still farming.

“Real and Right—it’s what I teach my children and it’s the way I will govern this state.”

We called it “Real and Right.” Chuck surrounded it with wonderful visuals that helped tell the story, but I learned the lesson. Storytelling is essential to an effective speech.

Creative Processes

The way we set about creating speeches depended on the occasion. Only about two percent of all my speeches were the high-profile, formally delivered variety. These are the ones most associated with the traditions of government and the flourishes everything from the introduction itself to the use of a teleprompter, as well as the decorum and the setting. All of these were showpieces in a way, a presentation that had to have good visuals.

These kinds of speeches had a certain rhythm and flow, and a unique way of engaging with the audience. Many included highlighted guests, like the ones featured in all of the State of the Union addresses from President Reagan onward. Sometimes these folks are described as human props. We dubbed them “stunt babies,” due to a couple occasions when some of our most memorable State of the State honorees were young children. These types of speeches would be carried live on television and radio and had considerable press attention, so they had to draw the eye as well as the ear.

“ Nearly every speech I give, long or short, formal or informal, written or off-the-cuff begins with a s to ry.”

The speeches I call talking-points were a more workman-like, everyday model and had a threepart construction: An informal lead-in (almost always a short story or experience), a substantive middle abbreviated to a set of key points, and then a closing section of quotable stuff. Much of this was just hand-scrawled on a page with bullet points, with simple things that personalized the remarks to the situation or related to someone in the

1 State of the State, 1996, Speaker of the House Mel Brown and Senate President Lane Beattie seated behind.

2 State of the State, 2002, Marty Stephens, Peace Dove feather from Olympic Flame lighting with Speaker of the House Marty Stephens seated behind. Mike is holding the Peace Dove feather from the Olympic Flame lighting.

3 State of the State, 2003

4 Mark Eaton with Governor Mike Leavitt, 1996 State of the State Address.

5 Governor Michael Leavitt is congratulated by Senator Lyle Hillyard, Monday, Jan. 18, 1999, after the State of the State Address. Photo by Chuck Wing, Deseret News

6 Mike prepping for a speech.

audience to spark interest from the start. The middle was always material I was very familiar with, with key words that triggered a longer, more substantive train of thought. The end quotes were meant to be the pithy, memorable encapsulation of it all, designed to be picked up by the media.

“ It is easier to get a new audience than a new speech.”

Bullet-point speeches were an even more basic variation of talking-point speeches. I’d either write these up on my way to the venue or sit down a few minutes before speaking and assemble the points and the sequencing of what I would say. These two types of bullet-point or key-word speeches were the vast majority of all my speeches.

The fourth type were off-the-cuff speeches— those in which I was so familiar with the audience or subject matter that I could compose and deliver them on the spot without notes. The material was rarely new; it is just adapted somewhat for the circumstances—a rolling repertoire. You walk in and just unspool it. Second nature.

For all speeches, I subscribed to the notion someone in politics had coined: “It is easier to get a new audience than a new speech.” For those engaged in frequent public speaking, that is a fundamental truth. It is impossible for most people to compose a new speech for every occasion. Recycling not only works but it makes for better speeches. That holds true on other stages as well; plays start off-Broadway for a reason. There is no way to refine material without actually presenting it.

I used to feel uneasy about this. In time, I came to understand that repetition drives a point home and fosters retention. Some things bear repeating, whether it’s the handing down of a basic truth or a retelling of an old story. Some things we just like hearing again and again. When you go to a concert, the crowd applauds the new songs but erupts into cheers upon hearing the old favorites.

Political candidates have to have a stump speech they can repeat over and over with the same kind of enthusiasm. It reinforces the message and hones your own delivery. Along the way, it becomes more memorable. I’m convinced that Jesus Christ repeated his speeches often. How else would his disciples have the ability to record them with such exactness in the four gospels?

I was constantly carrying a series of speech modules in my head. Most of the time, these would be built around a story. I would use those until I sensed they were becoming stale, then out they went and a new set of stories was rotated in. Most of the stories came from personal experiences or observations. Life provides us with an abundant supply of great material.

More often than not I would write or compose most speeches in the last hour before it had to be given. This is a strange thing, but there is something about the pressure of the last minute that clarifies my thinking. Sometimes, I could think for days about a speech, but not finalize it in an outline until the last minute. That is the reason so many of my speeches were composed in the reporter notebooks I carried throughout my time in public service.

Formal Written Speeches

The inaugural and State of the State speeches were among the most important that I delivered as governor because I used them to chart a course for the state. The inauguration speeches set forth the values I wanted to foster; State of the State speeches laid out an agenda for the year and our continued vision. State of the State and the inaugural speeches were the most common formal speeches I gave, but events occasionally dictated the formality of some speeches, as was the case with the 2002 Olympics. When testifying before Congress, remarks had to be written and formal. Every word would become part of the Congressional record.

Major speeches were difficult for me. I have always felt compelled to be the primary drafter because it is hard for me to adopt the words of others as my own. At the root of it was the fact that I read formal speeches poorly out loud; it feels unnatural and oratorical, whereas my natural style is more

1 Gang Summit, Utah State Capitol Rotunda

2 Governor Leavitt and Jackie Leavitt being introduced at State of the State

3 State of the State, 2003, Chamber of the House of Representatives

conversational. This might have confounded some of my speechwriting partners (although one told me it was motivating).

Another reason I prefer to write my own speeches is that the writing process itself shapes my thinking and drives the internal mechanisms that help me reach conclusions. I’m not able to explain it better than that. There is something about the creative process that teases thoughts out of my head and leads to a determination. This is not just confined to speechmaking; whenever I have a major decision to make, I will inevitably write myself a memo. In the process, my thinking is given structure and I can examine it in a more deliberate way.

State of the State addresses became a significant part of the way my team and I consolidated our work plan. The process would start in September as we got serious about budgets. We would generally finish the budget right after Thanksgiving, giving us the necessary time to print budgets and plan announcements. With those decisions in hand, I would begin developing a detailed outline of what I wanted to say in the State of the State address. The outline would then be turned over to a colleague to create a draft and steer it through numerous edits. LaVarr Webb, Vicki Varela, Laurie Sullivan Maddox, Natalie Gochnour, and Therese Anderson each played that role at different times.

Once a draft was developed, I took the pen for a while. To me, there is something almost magical about having words on a page. I’m able

clearly–especially once I see what I don’t want to say. Visualizing is the key. The drafts written by others didn’t need to be right; they just needed to be done. Somehow, that allowed me to work more fluidly.

Often my next draft would take the speech in a different direction. It was just the way the creative process worked for me. Then we’d pass it back and forth—many times. It was commonplace for there to be more than twenty drafts over the next thirty days.

State of the State speeches are challenging for several reasons, a big one being the gravity of the occasion among them. These speeches were also televised, and it was an important moment where I could speak directly to the people. Television stations always wanted it kept to thirty minutes. With applause and ceremonial trappings, it always ran longer.

I always used a teleprompter on the State of the State speeches and practiced them beforehand. Teleprompters help immensely by accompanying and keeping pace with you. That gave me the confidence and freedom to be more conversational in the delivery. To me, that is the key to public speaking. Be conversational; talk with people, not at them.

Another factor that made the speech challenging was that every department, constituency, and

interest group looked for mention of their issue or project. There was an assumption that if the governor mentioned an issue in the State of the State, it was important. Finally, the speech needed to be entertaining for a television audience. Over time, I came to focus these speeches on my priorities and reaching two audiences: the public and the legislature.

Following my time as governor, I have worked as a contributor to the president’s State of the Union address. Presidents go through the same process as I did, and so do presidential candidates. No matter what the level, the process is similar, like when there are moments that you’re stuck on the umpteenth draft and think it’s going to be a disaster, and then suddenly, it crystallizes.

Recycling Works

There was no single speech that was a signature or a personal favorite for me. But I have to admit I loved the big formal speeches. It wasn’t just their excitement and preeminence, although those indeed set them apart. They were important in the continuum of history and had significance attached to the office and the times—and they are preserved by the state because of it. That’s hard to top.

I liked them too because these particular speeches, while stately, did not have to be spiritless, and were showcases for the character of Utah, as well as the mechanics of state government. These were the kinds of speeches where perfunctory interest in facts and figures could give way seconds later to raucous applause and a standing ovation.

Usually, the stunt babies instigated such moments. But one year, it was a seven-foot-four “stunt center” who stole the show.

In the 1996 State of the State, we wanted to emphasize the stultifying amount of federal welfare reform regulations, manuals, and guidelines requiring state compliance. We could just say there were a lot—or we could show it. We asked Utah Jazz center Mark Eaton if he’d be willing to make a cameo appearance to help demonstrate this particular folly. His response was: “Yeah, I’m there!” And so it was that the future NBA Hall of Famer stood

in the well of the House, stacking reams of federal regulations sky high, visualizing the problem better than we could ever express it. It was a slam dunk that people remember to this day.

There were many other Utahns who helped personalize issues and episodes: Olympic athletes; the toddler “Bo” whose young life needed an assist from state’s Division of Child and Family Services; a seven-year-old girl whose reading ability five grades ahead attested to great parent and school collaboration; an unselfish couple who adopted five children to keep a group of foster siblings intact; and a unit of Utah National Guard Special Forces soldiers who were among the first called up after 9/11—and the first to sacrifice and fight against the Taliban in Afghanistan. They were awarded medals on the spot during the 2003 State of the State.

Everyday Utahns always brought down the house, and rightly so. To me, these moments epitomized Utah’s achievements and its aspirations, and recognized the best in all of us.

11

The Appointments Process

When I was a child visiting my Leavitt grandparents, I often paused to read a letter of commendation written by the governor of Nevada to my Grandfather Leavitt upon my grandpa’s retirement from the State Highway Department. It hung in their living room.

I loved my Grandpa Leavitt already, but reading that letter affirmed that others valued him too—and appreciated the service he provided. Seeing those sentiments written on the letterhead of a governor’s office made me appreciate my grandfather even more.

One of the basic duties of the governor of Utah is to make appointments to an array of state boards, commissions, and offices—more than 2,500 of them. Some are for well-known roles like membership on the State Tax Commission, Board of Pardons, or as a trustee of a university or college. Others were for less glamorous service such as a member of the State Fair Board or on the Commission for Geographic Names. However, with rare exception, people find their public service to be a source of great satisfaction and pride. Regularly I hear introductions made or read an obituary listing service on a board or commission among

Scott Matheson Courthouse, Salt Lake City, Utah

the profound accomplishments of a person’s life. Every role had an impact and came with a special public trust.

Remembering the letter that hung on my Grandpa Leavitt’s living room wall and the impact it had on me as a grandchild, I resolved to make appointments to a public role as dignified as possible. We developed a large frameable certificate for those who served, and people displayed them with pride. I did my best to give each appointment the trappings of importance.

A Great Way to Serve

Boards and Commissions are a great way to involve people who have an appetite for public service. It is also a wonderful and appropriate way to reward competent political supporters. Early on in the administration, I had a list compiled of the people who had been strong supporters of mine in the campaign and asked the staffer overseeing the process to find places where their skills and interests matched. Years later, people who I appointed to various volunteer public service roles tell me what a wonderful experience they had and how much they appreciated the opportunity.

Connie White, the new head of the Department of Commerce, recommended that Joe Ingles, the director of the Consumer Committee, an agency within Commerce tasked with representing individuals in utility rate matters, be replaced.

I had experience with both the Consumer Committee and director Joe Ingles prior to becoming governor. I agreed with Connie that Joe should be replaced. He had been there eleven years, but had actually said publicly that he was not accountable to the department or the governor. He believed he just worked for the Consumer Committee.

Not surprisingly, the Consumer Committee also believed they were completely independent. However, the law did not back them up. I authorized the replacement of Ingles and instructed that none of the current members of the Consumer Committee would be reappointed unless we had a very clear understanding of their role.

“ I resolved to make appointments to a public role as dignified as possible.”

Boards and Commissions are important for several reasons. They help ensure that leaders are getting the perspective of citizens and experts, and many have real power delegated by the legislature so that decisions can be made without legislation. When power resides there, maintaining control of the executive branch of government requires having people who will be loyal.

In some cases, governors seek people out to serve. In others, many people step forward and aggressively pursue the position, and the governor has to navigate a politically sensitive landscape to identify and select an appointee.

These appointed roles had real impact, and at times, decisions created controversy.

Acting on 2,500 separate appointments was a demanding effort requiring more time than the governor can personally allocate. I assigned Jeff Bennion, a staff assistant who had worked with me on the campaign, to steer the process. Later, Nancy Brown took his place. Lieutenant Governor Olene Walker was asked to oversee the process and issue approvals on my behalf. I maintained direct responsibility on a series of appointments that were the most sensitive. This included any full-time employed role, all the higher education appointments to Boards of Trustees and the Board of Regents, and a series of sensitive appointments such as the State Alcoholic Beverage Control Commission and Economic Development Board. Olene and the staff liaison would bring me recommendations, but all required my personal approval.

Judicial Selection

The appointments I spent the most time on were judges. Over nearly eleven years, I appointed fifty-nine trial judges, twenty juvenile court judges,

three members of the Court of Appeals, and five Utah Supreme Court justices — a total of eightyseven judges in all. A governor has no greater duty of care than when selecting the jurists who will pass judgment on matters of grave importance in the lives of the state’s citizens.

Utah has a very thoughtful system of judicial selection. In many states, the governor simply appoints judges, which in my opinion invites political favors. Other states allow for the election of judges, an even worse system.

In Utah, the governor appoints bipartisan judicial selection committees in each court district. These committees, under the direction of the Utah Courts administrator, receive applications and narrow the field to three candidates for the trial bench, five for the appellate court and seven for the Supreme Court.

Typically, my staff would interview the candidates first. Then, after reviewing their applications, I interviewed them, along with my chief of staff, legal counsel, and Camille Anthony, director of the Commission on Criminal and Juvenile Justice.

Although I conducted more than 250 judicial interviews, each interview was always a big deal because I wanted to choose capable people. Candidates are always nervous; being made a judge represents a major career event, and people have their reputations on the line. Their colleagues and associates know who is a finalist, and if a candidate is never selected, that candidate feels professionally diminished.

For the district court bench, I did not see it as my job to evaluate the person’s prowess as an attorney, though it was generally evident from the application and from people we spoke to about the candidate. (If we sensed someone was deficient, they were eliminated.) I felt it part of my responsibility to discern a candidate’s temperament, judgment, and judicial philosophy. I tried to imagine them judging me or one of my children.

My usual pattern was to ask them open-ended questions. For example, I would invite them to construct a ten-minute oral autobiography. I would evaluate several aspects of their response. Some

would simply list dates, schools, and degrees to describe their life journey. However, the candidates that stood out were the ones that related experiences that had shaped them. They would talk about what they had learned from difficult or unusual experiences. I would probe to understand how these experiences had shaped them. I came to believe that people who found and could express learning from their own experiences would be better judges than those who didn’t.

Sometimes I would ask them to tell me about their most important mentors and what they learned from them. This gave me a chance to gauge the nature of their relationships. Another favorite was, “As you thought about this interview, I’m guessing there were some things you wanted to convey to me. What are they, and why was it important to convey it?”

I looked for signs of hubris or self-absorption, and I was drawn to people who had a natural sense of humor. I would often invite a candidate to tell me about a judge they admired most and why. Interestingly, an astounding number of candidates listed Judge David Winder of the federal district court as the judge they admired most.

I would also ask them to describe (without naming the person) an experience with a judge that caused them to think less of that judge. In addition, while I didn’t always ask directly, I also looked for the way they valued their family. This was particularly important for juvenile judges.

Most candidates were asked about the process they used in making the decision to apply. I used this question to measure their commitment to becoming a judge and to understand the way they went about making decisions.

I felt there were limits to the appropriateness of asking for views on specific political issues, so I developed a questioning technique where I would tell the candidate that I was going to say a series of words or phrases and I would like him or her to simply respond with thoughts they had about that subject. I would then toss out words such as: industry regulation, healthcare, open space, life, preservation, guns, tenure, church and state. One

candidate remarked afterward that this was like “verbal truth serum.” The value of this word exercise is that it allowed me to find out how well informed a candidate was, and often they provided insights into their value system.

“ I will confirm the decision tomorrow, I want to think about it overnight.”

One candidate we were considering blew himself out of the water during this exercise. One of the words was “guns.” He said, “I love guns. In fact, I’m a terrific shot. I can hit a target the size of a quarter at five hundred yards.” When interviews were over, the others who interviewed candidates and I would typically compare notes. None of us could remember anything after his quite evident exaggeration. We laughed about it for days.

Pre-Decision Routine

At first I found choosing among five qualified, high-quality people painful. It made me a bit anxious because I wanted to choose “the right” person. Sometimes I would be tempted to put the decisions off or worry afterward. I knew I had to become a better, more decisive in making these and other decisions.

I created a personal routine that helped me make decisions in a timely way. It is quite common in sports and other areas of performance for an athlete to develop a pre-shot routine. For example, a foul shooter in basketball may have the routine of taking a deep breath, bouncing the ball three times, and on the third time, they move the ball in rhythm above their head and shoot. Whatever the routine, the sense of familiar motion calms the player and improves their outcomes. I needed a pre-decision routine so that I could be calm and my outcomes could be improved.

When I had a judge to choose, I would study the names, do the interviews, and consult with others. Then I would schedule a time when I could be alone in a small private office I kept. During that time, I

would force myself to decide which person to nominate. Even if I was not sure, I would make a decision.

Once I had made a decision I would offer a prayer. To be clear, I was not asking God to tell me who the judge should be. I prayed to be comfortable with the decision. I would then walk from my office to the office of the staff member in charge of judge appointments and give them the name. I would then say, “I will confirm the decision tomorrow, I want to think about it overnight.” Somehow, knowing that I could alter the course if I needed to allow time for the comfort to come. Most of the time, the next morning I felt fine about the decision and we proceeded. However, occasionally I altered my direction because I could not get comfortable with it. Sometimes I knew why and other times I did not. When I needed to pick someone else, I would repeat the process with another name.

Because I could choose only one person among multiple candidates, there was always a greater number who didn’t get selected, most of whom were well qualified. Many of them wisely continued to apply. Once the judicial nominating committee felt a person was appointable, they sent them as part of the applicant panel again and again. There was an element of patience required; rarely did a person get appointed the first time. Often, we saw people three or four times before appointing them. Occasionally, we would send a message to a member of the selection committee that a particular candidate was not likely to be appointed.

Typically, I would have my colleagues call all of the candidates back to tell them the results of the interviews. We would offer encouragement to the ones we hoped to see again.

Amid one ongoing selection process, I was in Vernal for a parade. It was a typical rural Utah parade where you would go a half block between observers. However, on this particular day, a sign caught my eye. It was held by a fourteen or fifteenyear-old boy. It said, “Choose (judicial candidate’s name) as Judge. He’s my dad!” I was impressed that a son would do that. I was careful not to let the experience affect my decision but, as it turned out,

I did select his dad. I told my legal counsel, Gary Doxey, that I wanted to handle this one personally. I called the home, got a hold of the son and asked him to convey the news to his father.

Supreme Court and Court of Appeals

Our approach to appointing Supreme Court and Court of Appeals judges brought an even greater level of deliberation. Some candidates managed the interview with me better than others. The good ones had a strategy designed to make themselves the most attractive.

In 1994, my first opportunity to appoint a judge came about by virtue of a retirement. Among the candidates was a seasoned Court of Appeals judge, Leonard Russon. Judge Russon was in his late fifties or early sixties, and I feel confident he understood a governor likes to appoint people who will serve a long time on the court. He did a good job on the interview, and then at the very end he said, “You might naturally look to appoint a person younger than me to the court with the expectation your impact would endure. I want you to know that if I have the privilege to serve, I will retire while you still have enough time to appoint my replacement. He had certainly anticipated my thoughts. I appointed him and the judge kept his word. I appointed his successor in 2003.

On two different occasions—in 2000 and 2003—we had two seats to fill on the Supreme Court at the same time. It was extraordinary, and evident that we would be remaking the entire court. We developed models of what we wanted the court to look like.

We went through a very deliberate process, thinking about how to formulate an effective court. My chief of staff Rich McKeown mapped it all out on a white board, listing the three current court justices and their attributes, juxtaposed with the nominees we were discussing. Since it was two vacancies, and involved the Supreme Court, we had fourteen candidates to consider.

One key decision was whether we wanted the highest court to be a synchronous panel of likeminded individuals or to mix in someone eminently qualified who maybe brought a different approach to deliberation and reasoning. We decided to move away from any cookie-cutter approach and go more in the direction of unique views, choosing Ronald Nehring and Jill Parrish as justices. In 2000, the other year with two appointments, I chose Matthew Durrant and Michael Wilkins.

Looking back, with the exception of one or two people, I believe the quality of people I appointed to the bench was high because I took the decisions very seriously.

From left: Chief Justice in office prior to Governor Leavitt ; Matthew Durrant, Jill Parrish, Mike Leavitt, Mike Wilkins, Ron Nehring, Christine Durham.

12

Other Constitutional Relationships

The Utah Constitution, like the U.S. Constitution, provides for three branches of government: executive, legislative, and judicial, with checks and balances working the same way as in the U.S. Constitution. That’s the written framework, but reality and execution tend to be a bit more complicated. As one example of this, the state’s other constitutional officers who would traditionally be thought of as part of the executive branch are elected independently.

Another thing that can cause complications is Utah’s Constitution also establishes a separate system of schools. The Utah State Board of Education is a separate constitutional entity. Were it not for the schools’ dependence on the legislature for money, and certain responsibilities of the governor in the way members of the school board get elected, the school system would operate with complete autonomy. Likewise, the legislature also created an independent system of higher education. The

governor has influence through his or her authority to appoint members to their respective governing boards and through the budget-setting process, but beyond that the higher education system operates quite independently.

Likewise, the governor is the commander in chief of the Utah National Guard, but the relationship the National Guard has with the U.S. Army makes it a shared power relationship.

All of these relationships create tension within government, and as governor I had to navigate relationship dynamics among and between various other state entities and individuals.

State Officers

On January 4, 1993, when I took the oath of office for the first time, three other state officials took the same oath. Ed Alter was sworn in as state treasurer for a third four-year term. He would go on to serve four more terms. State auditor Tom Allen had first been elected in the 1984 election, and this was his third term as well. Also sworn in with us that day was Jan Graham, the state’s first female attorney general.

Ed and Tom were Republicans. Jan was a Democrat, elected after defeating Scott Burns in a hotly contested race. Ed Alter continued to serve until 2009, when he retired after twenty-eight years as treasurer. Tom Allen left his position in 1995, when he was made chairman of the Government Accounting Standards Board, a group the Deseret News described as “the Supreme Court of the accounting profession.”1 Consequently, I appointed his deputy, Auston Johnson, to replace him as state auditor. Auston served until 2013.

I felt the roles of the state treasurer and state auditor as separately elected officials worked fine. It certainly created accountability, and all three of the men who served during my time as governor just did their jobs and didn’t get enmeshed in politics or policy. We had a collaborative and professional relationship during my entire tenure.

My relationship with Jan Graham, however, was a bit rockier. Though we both worked at keeping the relationship professional and civil, we had several significant tensions at times. The fact is, all the elements that make relationships difficult existed between us.

First of all, we were in different parties. Jan was the only statewide elected Democrat at the time. She was smart, likeable, and popular—the hope of the Democratic Party in Utah. She was the only Democrat at the time who could have been considered a legitimate political threat to me or Senators Orrin Hatch and Bob Bennett. Jan and I had different philosophies on many issues and vastly different political bases to satisfy.

Perhaps the most difficult challenge was the differences in our views about the role of the attorney general. Jan, for reasons I completely understand, felt that since she too had been elected by the people, she was therefore empowered to make the strategic decisions on litigation the state engaged in.

I viewed the attorney general as the state’s lawyer, and I, as chief executive officer of the executive branch of state government, was the client. Likewise, I viewed every state agency as her client. I believe she had not just a constitutional requirement to fulfill that role due to her position within the executive branch, but also a duty under the ethics of the legal profession to represent the wishes of her client.

This became a significant issue when at one point the state lost a lower court decision on a case related to abortion. The state legislature wanted to push the federal courts to allow a more restrictive law. The way to do that was to appeal the case to the Eighth Circuit Court, and then potentially to the Supreme Court. Jan was prochoice and made a unilateral decision, without consulting with me (Utah’s chief executive), to not appeal it. I decided to hire an outside attorney, Mary Ann Woods, to file an appeal on my behalf. During that period, I also threatened to pursue a constitutional amendment clarifying who directed legal policy, but ultimately chose not to. 1.

We had other substantial differences of opinion regarding issues or litigation, such as the action brought in 1993 by the National Center for Youth Law over Utah’s child welfare and protection system, and the 1998 settlement of a nationwide case involving nearly all fifty states and the major U.S. tobacco companies. In each of these cases, the attorney general made key decisions that impacted the state’s budget, to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars, without seeking agreement from the client, the state.

Public Education

Most governors run for office pledging to improve education. I was no exception. The reality is, however, that governors have no direct controls with which they can impact the public schools. The Utah Constitution established the public school system as an independent entity with its own

system of governance. State Board of Education members, until 2020, were elected in nonpartisan elections. The State School Board, in turn, appoints and hires the State Superintendent. Utah’s local school boards operate the same way.

However, while the governor and the legislature have no direct powers to affect education, the influences they do have are powerful levers. The most significant is the budget. The Utah Constitution requires that students statewide be provided with free public education. In fact, the Constitution originally committed state income taxes exclusively to the funding of public K-12 education. During my service, the Constitution was amended to allow income tax to be used additionally for certain aspects of higher education. Schools get some property tax as well, but it is limited. The state uses income tax as a means of equalizing the amount spent in different parts of the state.

From left: Marty Stephens, Jan Graham, Mike Leavitt, Lane Beattie , Olene Walker

Consequently, whenever state government— through the governor and legislature—wants to alter the direction of the public schools, it is done by requiring the State Board of Education to accept the changes as a condition of receiving the state’s tax money.

The introduction of charter schools in Utah is a prime example of budgetary and lawmaking leverage. Charter schools were launched under my administration and with my backing. Subsequently, the number of charter schools have grown rapidly throughout the state and have been an integral component of the public education system ever since.

School vouchers and tuition tax credits, on the other hand, have had little success. During my tenure, many members of the legislature and various conservative organizations in the state pushed for the introduction of a voucher system. Public schools, they argued, were unresponsive, bureaucratic, and ineffective. If the state gave each student a voucher and the choice for parents to spend it on whatever school they determined was best—private schools namely—it would foster competition. The marketplace would reward the good schools and force the less effective ones to improve or close.

benefits as vouchers but avoiding many of the pitfalls. The State School Board and local school districts were strongly against charter schools. So, to effect change in a system where the governor and legislature have no direct control of the school system, state education appropriation bills had to be written in a way that compelled the School Board to follow the law or operate without funding.

A second power the governor possesses is involvement in the way the State School Board gets elected. It’s a two-part selection and election process. The governor appoints selection committees, who narrow all formally declared candidates down to three. The committees send those names back to the governor, who then chooses two to be on the election ballot. A year before I became governor, the legislature had changed the system, switching it from direct primary and general elections of state board members to the selection-committee process involving the governor. In very recent years, the system has been tweaked a few more times, including a change that now allows State School Board candidates to file and run for office with political party affiliations.

The third tool the governor uniquely has is the bully pulpit. This is one of the reasons I visited schools so often (I visited a school every week on average during my first term as part of a campaign promise) because I was able to generate substantial momentum for various initiatives.

“ All of these relationships create tension within government, and as governor I had to navigate relationship dynamics among and between various other state entities and individuals.”

While I agreed with many of their arguments, I saw problems with vouchers. One significant downside was the fact that vouchers would create inequality, because most private schools require substantial tuition in addition to the voucher.

In the final analysis, I took the charter school route, in which private individuals or entities, rather than government, created schools, and state money followed the student—providing the same

Over the years I was governor, I enjoyed positive relationships with the school community; they knew I was an advocate. The most tension we had was over the charter school initiative, though I believe time has vindicated my position.

Higher Education

Some years before I became governor, I was appointed to the Board of Trustees of Southern Utah State College and soon after was elected chairman of the Board. Four years later, I was appointed as a

1 Attorney General Jan Graham with Mike Leavitt

2 Mike and Dr. Jim Miller, Mike’s fifth grade teacher at South Elementary School in Cedar City, Utah, where Mike attended third through sixth grade

3 Mike and Olene Walker talking to high school reporters.

4 Chase and Mike Leavitt at Cedar City South Elementary

5 Mike reading to students.

member of the State Board of Regents, the governing board of the Utah System of Higher Education.

The fact that there is a Utah System of Higher Education is in large measure because of my dad, Dixie Leavitt. While he was majority leader of the Utah Senate, he came to see the serious problems created when every university and college approached the legislature independently and operated without central leadership.

He took on a remarkably complex and difficult political problem of designing a system of higher education, drafting the legislation to implement it, and building the political support to enact it. As I look back over the last fifty years of Utah history, there is no greater legislative achievement than the creation of the Board of Regents system. It was a brilliant piece of work, and my father rarely gets the credit he deserves. It has been long enough that the original people involved have retired or passed away, but it is an achievement that cannot go unacknowledged.

In subsequent years, a separate framework—the Utah System of Technical Colleges—was created to oversee applied technology colleges and programs, and it was governed by its own Board of Trustees. In 2020, those two independent systems were merged into a single Utah System of Higher Education, and the two boards were consolidated into one—a new, eighteen-member Utah Board of Higher Education.

Under the previous system, the legislature passed a higher education budget and the Board of Regents adjudicated it. The governor nominated the Board of Regents and the State Senate confirmed them. Regents hired the commissioner of higher education and the university and college presidents.

The Board of Regents had to be bipartisan. When I appointed Regents, I made very clear to them they were not being appointed to represent an institution or geographic region of the state. Still, the Regent appointments were politically sensitive.

In reality, the governor has limited direct authority over higher education, but there were more levers to pull with higher education than public education. In addition to the budget and the

appointment power of Trustees and Regents, the governor had a big public megaphone. Universities need the governor’s support, and it provides great leverage.

I admire those who devote themselves to academia. They contribute mightily. However, during my years as governor I made no secret that I believe the model of higher education in the United States is wasteful and inefficient. Campuses are underutilized. Higher education measures time in a seat, not learning. It is too expensive, takes too long, and too often colleges and universities encourage students to prepare for jobs that don’t exist. The system is insufficiently accountable for results. It is a world replete with elitist notions, where high tuition, exclusive admission standards, and a big brand are mistaken as quality.

These views ultimately resulted in my introduction of three higher education initiatives: Western Governors University (WGU), the Utah College of Applied Technology, and an engineering initiative. All three have achieved their intended result, which I write about in more detail in part two of this volume.

The universities and colleges knew of my skepticism but humored me mostly. They figured my ideas would go away. Some were more direct than others; Bernie Machen, during his inauguration as president of the University of Utah, took a not-soveiled swipe at the ideas behind WGU with me sitting behind him on the stage. However, nearly two decades later, I encountered Bernie at a fundraising event for Mitt Romney. Bernie Machen was president of the University of Florida and attending with a friend of his. He said, “I have to admit, you were right about WGU.”

This is an environment in which knowing and understanding the governor’s limited capacity to make change on higher education campuses caused me to avoid a collision and to instead focus on developing a winning alternative. I did not try to disrupt their model directly; rather, I believed that the unsustainability of the higher education

business model would begin to demonstrate its lack of sustainability soon enough, and that I was better off working to build a disruptive competitor that, in time, would be sought out by colleges and university systems in distress. That strategy has proven successful, as I will show in the later chapter about WGU.

The National Guard

The governors of the fifty states serve as the commanders in chief of the National Guard in their respective states. The first book of my personal history details my service as a soldier and officer in the Utah Army National Guard. It was a positive experience, but one I did not miss after it ended. However, it was gratifying to catapult over the course of my life from second lieutenant to commander in chief. Only two Utah governors have served in the Guard—me and Gary Herbert.

The role of commander in chief was born of the tradition in the United States of civilian control of the military. Accordingly, the president of the United States must nominate general officers, and then the military reports to the president and only the president can deploy them. All of those things are true at the state level for the governor and the National Guard.

The governor nominates the adjutant general of the National Guard. John Matthews was serving when I became governor and I asked him to continue. Technically, the adjutant general serves a sixyear term, but if the governor asked for a resignation, the adjutant general would comply. John was a wonderful man and officer. After retiring, I asked him to serve on my own staff as a military advisor.

Upon John’s retirement, I appointed Jim Miller, who was already a major general. He had, as a National Guard officer, commanded a significant portion of the United States artillery forces. This is an indication about how closely integrated the National Guard and regular army have become. Jim was highly respected.

Appointing Jim Miller was not just logical because of his fine military career. He had been a teacher and mentor to me throughout my youth. He was actually my fifth-grade teacher and taught American history at Cedar High School. Jim was highly influential in my decision to join the National Guard and become an officer. And by the time I became an officer, Jim had advanced to battalion commander. He had influenced my life for good in many ways, and I was delighted that circumstances evolved so I could serve with him again.

B. Co. 19th Special Forces Group, Utah National Guard, National Guard Day

1 Chase on a weekly school visit

2 Mike conducting a symphony

3 The 2003 State of the State address, with military honors given to four Utah National Guard soldiers

4 President of Utah State Geoge Emert (far left) with Mike and other Utah State University administrators

5 National Guard Day Parade, Camp Williams, General Jim Miller

When it came time to replace Jim Miller, I concluded to reach a ways down into the ranks of the National Guard for my appointment. I passed over several general officers and appointed Brian Tarbet, who was also a lawyer with the Attorney General’s Office. I felt Brian would bring a new energy to the guard.

“ It was a staggering amount of heroism for one small unit . “

I met regularly with the adjutant general and was periodically called to perform duties as commander in chief. Whenever troops were deployed, it was done with the approval of the governor. The relationship between the United States military and the National Guard is a complex one. There is a process under which a governor places guard units under federal command and activates them for national purposes. However, the federal government foots nearly all of the bill economically, which always equates to them having constructive control.

Each year the National Guard hosts Governor’s Day. As a young officer-candidate myself years before, I was involved in planning the first one. Little did I know at that point that someday, I would return to review the troops after having stood to be reviewed many times. It was always a meaningful experience for me, and I made a point of keeping my speeches short, knowing the troops had been standing on the parade ground for considerable time prior to my arrival.

I was always game for National Guard learning adventures. Sometimes, when they had field training exercises, I would be invited to observe. They always took great care of the commander in chief. Transportation was always by helicopter, and accommodations were well suited. We used helicopters to inspect proposed wilderness areas,

and I would fly out to the test and training range to watch their Cobra or Apache attack helicopters fire. At times I would use their facilities for staff retreats.

The Utah National Guard has more than six thousand members, and at one point we had more than two thousand of them on deployment during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, both Guardsmen and Reservists. The impact was disproportionate to Utah’s population, and some smaller communities acutely felt those impacts. Jackie and I made sure to thank our military families and held gatherings all over the state for that purpose.1

One unit that served with tremendous valor was the 19th Special Forces Group (SFG), a Reserve unit of Army Green Berets. Bravo Company of the 19th SFG was first activated and sent to Afghanistan just two months after the 9/11 attacks on America.

I honored the company in the 2003 State of the State speech and presented Bronze Stars on the spot to the last four members of the company who had yet to receive their medals. All four had earned an additional “V” device citation for valor, resulting from directly engaging the enemy in ground combat.

In ensuing years, the 19th SFG would deploy again and again, and some of its members paid the ultimate sacrifice, giving their lives for our state and nation.

It was a “staggering amount of heroism for one small unit,” I said of Bravo Company in the State of the State speech. “We are a proud state and a grateful nation.” The ovation for the soldiers in that legislative chamber was thunderous.

1. During one of the gatherings Jackie met a young teacher named Andrea Holloway, the sister of a deployed guardsman. The following week I heard Jackie making calls trying to find Andrea, calling more than fifteen schools until she found her. Jackie then engineered a date with my cousin David Piercey. A few months later they married.

The Legislature

Spending a week each year at the Utah State Legislative sessions with my father as a state senator had a significant impact on me. I grew up knowing legislators, hearing discussions of lawmaker dynamics, and listening to the distinctive rhythm of parliamentary debate.

Even the legislative chambers had a special meaning to me. On a winter night in February 1973, I proposed marriage to my wife in the Utah Senate Lounge. I was attending a legislative ball as the guest of my parents. It was an event to raise money for the Republican Party. I had chosen that night and location because

the Capitol was close enough to Newton, Utah, that Jackie’s parents—whom I had pre-notified—could attend and be part of the surprise.

At the right moment, I suggested we escape the hot, crowded Capitol Rotunda for the more serene Senate chamber area, which I knew intimately from my days as a child. When we were alone, I took a knee in the classic position and popped the question. I must have surprised Jackie, because her first response was, “Oh, get serious.” To which I replied, “I’ve never been so serious in my entire life.” She nodded her agreement as I used trembling hands to guide a ring onto her finger.

About that time, Senator Warren Pugh wandered into the lounge and became the first person to hear our big announcement. We proceeded back to the crowded event, our parents, and the happy life that has followed that memorable moment.

Throughout my adult life, additional reasons developed for me to interact with the legislature. I helped many lawmakers politically as they ran campaigns. I participated in higher-education governance, worked to recodify the insurance code, and guided initiative and referendum campaigns defending Utah’s tax system.

When I decided to run for governor, it felt natural seek the support of state legislators. Despite never having served in the legislature, I was able to gain commitments from all but two Republican legislators. Those legislators from whom I gained commitments formed a very important foundation for my campaign in 1992.

So with all that history, I was surprised by how much I still had to learn during my first legislative session—things changed once I became governor.

Our first legislative session felt like a honeymoon—but the reality is my team and I hadn’t had a lot of time to prepare. Not surprisingly, our agenda was a bit light, and so the legislature was gracious to me. I got everything I asked for. . . until the last night of the session.

Senator Lane Beattie, who would later become my best ally in the legislature, had quietly engineered a property tax increase for school construction and introduced it on the last night of the session. It was a bombshell.

I had committed in the campaign that there would be no tax increases during my first legislative session. On the other hand, the education community, which had backed me in a big way, was jubilant. I was at cross-purposes with two of my most important allies.

I indicated to the media that the tax increase took me by surprise. I reminded them of my campaign statements where I said that I would not support tax increases during the session. Within hours, the Utah Education Association announced that if I vetoed the bill, teachers would go on strike.

In my mind, I had no choice but to veto Senator Beattie’s property tax increase bill, though I had not announced it publicly. I went to Lane and told him we had to find another solution. He understood the fix he had put me in. On the other hand, he had skillfully navigated his Republican column to pass a tax increase—no small feat.

“ I’ve never been more serious in my entire life.”

I had twenty days to sign or veto the bill. As the time ticked away, I worked to engineer an alternative. As I did, the education community ratcheted up their pressure. Groups of teachers in various districts walked off the job. Suddenly, parents faced the dilemma of how to manage school-age children while they were at work. Things were getting tense.

I developed a plan under which I vetoed the bill but committed to finding tax exemptions for repeal worth the same amount produced by the property tax increase. I would then call the legislature back into session to consider that alternative. I felt absolutely confident that Republican legislators would not override a veto of their new Republican governor, who had vetoed a property tax increase.

It was a smart plan. It allowed me to veto the tax increase but still show sensitivity to the plight of education. It also allowed me to face down striking teachers—something my conservative base liked.

The big challenge however, was finding an equivalent amount in tax exemptions to repeal. Identifying the list of possibilities wasn’t hard. The state had, over the years, granted several hundred million dollars in exemptions—an exemption, essentially, from taxes everybody else had to pay. Each exemption had a constituency, however, and none of them were going to give up their position easily.

For example, the newspaper industry had an exemption. The rationale was, “Why would we tax news?” The coin-operated car wash industry had one, as well as those who owned coin-operated vending machines. Churches were exempt, as were their non-profit purchases. It was a fascinating process.

In the end, the teachers stayed mad for a while but didn’t strike. I vetoed the bill and then called the session. We passed repeals of several exemptions. In a stroke of good luck, during the period before we had to meet, a new revenue estimate was made and we actually had some money that the legislature had not contemplated. It was spent to make up the difference and to prevent the legislature from taking very hard votes on tax exemptions.

It was a baptism of fire into the dynamics of the legislature. The honeymoon was over.

Rhythms and Tensions

Over time it became clear to me that I had a misperception about the relationship between legislators and the governor. The model in my mind was that of management and a board of directors. That is not the model legislators envision. Several experiences aligned to reshape my vision. Conversations with Lieutenant Governor Olene Walker and legal counselor Robin Riggs, who both came from the legislative branch, were helpful. But perhaps the most important ah-ha moment came in a meeting related to child protective services legislation. The gathering was in the Governor’s Board Room. I stepped in to share my views on how a particular provision should be structured.

In addition to my staff, members of the legislative counsel staff were there. I was fairly insistent on how the bill should be written, even though the legislative sponsor wanted it done differently. The discussion wasn’t tense, but it was clear we disagreed.

The staff member, Bryant Howe, had been at the legislature for some time. He quite skillfully and tactfully taught me an important principle, simply by saying: “The problem is not everyone here [clearly meaning me] fully appreciates that legislators come to the Capitol having also been elected and feel quite empowered to enact change according to their own ideas.”

I appreciated his polite and tactful manner, and luckily the lightbulb went off. I had not fully appreciated the independence and responsibilities legislators feel, having been duly elected in their own right to bring their own ideas to state government.

The legislature and the governor are two different and distinct branches of government, both imbued with a duty and power to act. Our system of government requires that each respect the other, and a skillful governor can turn that position into a powerful tool.

The governor’s primary advantage is that he or she can speak with one voice, whereas the legislature speaks with 104 independent voices. But I concluded that the key to working well with the legislature was to understand them. They are, in fact, quite predictable in the ways they will behave in certain situations.

Predictably, there will be bad blood between Republicans and Democrats—and the dynamics between the House of Representatives and the Senate are equally predictable. This knowledge becomes the governor’s best tool toward the end of a legislative session. And there is nothing more guaranteed to bring the legislature together than showing the governor who is boss.

In reality, wielding executive-branch power in a legislative session is an art form. It requires a sense of timing and an understanding of human nature. Knowing how individual members were feeling—who they are mad at and why—becomes enormously important during the closing days of a legislative session.

There is a rhythm about a legislative session. In many ways mastering that rhythm is an important component of a governor’s success.

Utah’s legislative session generally convenes the third week of January. To be ready, we had to begin framing our primary objectives the summer before. The yearly staff retreats I instigated for cabinet heads and senior staff were held to prioritize objectives.

By September, we were developing a state budget. Departments were given assumptions about the amount of money they would be allocated and were expected to prioritize their needs and send a report back to my office for review throughout October and November.

Typically on the day after Thanksgiving, we would have a meeting to finalize decisions on the budget, which we would propose by mid-December of December. The document had to be finalized, printed, and put forward.

During my first couple of years as governor, I gave a budget address formally to a joint session of the legislature. However, legislators soon concluded that such an address made the governor’s budget too prominent in people’s minds. In their reasoning, the only budget that mattered was the one the legislature proposed and enacted. So, the invitations to address the legislature on the budget soon ended. I was a bit put out by that decision, as it seemed personal. However, I quickly understood that this lemon could be turned into lemonade.

When I previously gave the budget addresses to the joint session, the news media ran a single story with a pie chart showing how the total budget would be divided. I instituted a new process and called it “Budget Week.” We’d tell the budget in stories, revealing the budget one section at a time over a week to ten days, with great visuals that made the component parts more than just a pie chart.

When we announced the education budget, for example, we did it in a school surrounded by children. The next day we would announce the public safety budget, where I would be with highway patrolofficers talking about the ten new officers we were putting on the road. The third day, it might be the higher education or social services budget. Over the course of the rollout, we dominated the news.

Our incremental approach irritated the legislature. I understood that. However, we made efforts to include legislators and highlight bills they wanted to sponsor.

The approach reflected an important realization. Ultimately, the legislature was right: the only budget that mattered was the one they passed. However, the governor must sign the budget, or there is no budget. To be most effective in those negotiations, I needed to use the budget as a political document to set expectations according to my own views.

Our Legislative Strategy

My legislative strategy had a definite rhythm. Play hard at the beginning, lay low in the middle as the legislature organized its own budget, and then rev things up again at the end as the two sides had to come together to reconcile their differences.

It drove my budget director, Lynne Ward, crazy that I viewed our budget as a political document. I explained to her that I knew the extremely hard work her office had done in developing the budget and that I knew it was valuable and necessary. However, it was valuable because it gave us both a point of reference and created political support for us to negotiate with the legislature from a position of strength.

Our aggressive, media-centric budget announcement schedule was what I meant by playing hard at the beginning. Frankly, I know it annoyed legislators. I didn’t do it for that reason. I did it because I knew they were going to do everything they could to minimize the importance people put on the governor’s budget. We were jockeying for position.

“ It was a baptism of fire into the dynamics of the legislature. The honeymoon was over.”

I came to understand that right after I released the entire budget, the legislature would do two things. First, they would announce that the governor’s budget was dead on arrival. Second, they would ceremoniously ax some things they knew were important to me. They knew doing so would create bargaining chips for later. (Two of their favorites were cutting funds to the governor’s offices in both Washington, D.C., and Utah. They knew I’d fight to restore the money and they could then extract something for it.)

Laying low in the middle meant that once I had announced my budget and legislative priorities, I stepped back so they could have their turn to shine.

I stayed out of the news as much as possible and worked at not reacting to some of the odder things that would be said and done.

Playing hard at the end often meant ratcheting up public support to support our position. This is where the executive has an advantage because of the single voice. At various times, this got very tense.

For example, decisions about whether the legislature would authorize the state to bond—take on debt to build roads, facilities, and buildings—typically occurred closer to the end of a session. The alternative to bonding was to use ongoing sales tax revenue instead, but the use of sales tax meant education and other programs would receive less than I had proposed.

I would do all I could to persuade legislators behind closed doors, but if that didn’t work, my only option was to bring external pressure. So, often when we were approaching the end of the session, I would deliver a message to them that in its current form, I would not be willing to sign the budget. I would then begin to talk with the media, who were always looking for a hint of drama or controversy about our disagreement, framing the issue in very simple terms.

For example, “The legislature has decided to spend money on roads rather than schools. I just can’t go along with that.” I would then slowly turn up the pressure with stronger rhetoric or by getting groups to join with me. The goal was to create enough disagreement in the caucus that things would start to change. It was a delicate dance because if you went too far, you could stampede the legislature.

We worked hard at maintaining good relationships with legislative leadership. I held meetings every week with the leadership of both houses and with both parties. The goal was to make certain that they knew when we had a disagreement, so that, to the degree possible, we could work it out.

In advance of each session, we would meet with them to ask each individually what issues they would be carrying. We would also use that as an opportunity to explain our priorities. We actually assembled a list of bills we needed to see passed.

Our legislative team monitored our list every day to assure that things were progressing as necessary.

“ The legislature has decided to spend money on roads rather than schools. I just can’t go along with that.”

The legislative team wore red name tags during the session. We had negotiated legislative floor privileges, meaning my staff didn’t have to go through the Sergeant at Arms to get on the floor. It was a necessity to be responsive to members’ needs for information. It also allowed us to gather intelligence from everybody about what was happening or likely to happen. Periodically, if the legislature got irritated over something, they would revoke the team’s floor privileges, saying there were too many of them. It was the legislative equivalent of diplomatic sanctions.

Most of the work with legislators would be done by staff members. It was a deliberate method to keep the governor in reserve for moments that needed a deadlock broken. This would typically take the form of inviting a legislator to the Governor’s Office or having a meeting with leadership.

The truth is, legislators enjoyed being summoned to the Governor’s Office. They would often feign irritation, but when I called, they always told their colleagues. There were certain legislators I’d call down if there was a message I wanted spread around. I knew they would talk. However, most often I would have legislators down just to build relationships or to specifically ask for their vote.

One of my favorite things to do was sending legislators a note. In my back private office, there was a speaker that I could open up and hear the legislative debate. If there was something happening that I found interesting or important, I’d turn it

on. Or if I got wondering what they were up to, I’d listen in.

When I heard a legislator say something thoughtful, I’d write a handwritten note and have it delivered by a member of our team to them personally. Generally, it would say that I was in my office listening to the floor debate, and I thought their remarks were particularly thoughtful. Little things like that paid a big dividend.

We would also do more formal things. We would entertain at the Governor’s Mansion and invite them to events during the year. If there was a board or commission candidate that I didn’t have a strong feeling about, I’d call a legislator and ask if there was somebody in his or her district who would serve well in the role. I’d then let them offer names. These were important relationships, and we worked to treat them as such.

However, there were a few legislators who simply became political critics, and I felt they were liabilities to the party and to the functioning of the legislature. So, occasionally I would support the opponent of a Republican in a primary election. It made legislators very uncomfortable, but I felt it important to send a message that if you are going to attack me politically, as a Republican, it will have ramifications.

Perhaps one of the most important lessons I learned about dealing with legislators was that they valued their status as an independent branch of government, and getting too close could create a backlash.

In 1996, my reelection was contested, but not rigorously. My opponent, a Salt Lake County commissioner, did not present a serious threat. However, I wanted to campaign and felt it might be useful to campaign for legislators—with the hope that it would ultimately benefit me in the session.

Marty Stephens was the House Majority Leader. He aspired to be Speaker of the House and it was widely expected that he would. I suggested to Marty that if he wanted to team up with me, I’d use some of my campaign funds and we could campaign with legislators in their districts. That summer and fall,

I campaigned personally in fifty-eight legislative districts. For a guy who had a slam dunk of an election, I worked incredibly hard.

The election occurred. I got 74 percent of the vote and won every county in Utah—a first for a governor. Republican legislators did well also.

In the week following the election, the legislature met to choose its leaders. Mel Brown surprised Marty and won the election for speaker. Mel had cleverly developed a campaign against Marty claiming he was “too close to the governor.” Mel pledged to maintain the separation of powers by standing up to the governor.

I had spent thousands of dollars of campaign money and burned weeks of time campaigning for Republican legislators in fifty-eight different legislative districts only to have it cleverly turned into a campaign against me. (There was more to it than that. Mel maintained close ties to rural legislators and built a coalition of legislators who wanted rural roots within leadership.)

While I was able to work pretty well with Mel Brown, as a new speaker he needed to make good on his commitment, and therefore we had a steady tension present in our relationship. Four years later, Marty became Speaker of the House. He was not going to make the mistake of being too close to the governor again. Although I had a healthy relationship with him, we were both smart enough to keep it arm’s length. In fact, Marty gave serious thought to running against me in 2000, but ultimately decided not to.

To a degree, I think legislative relationships naturally wear thinner as time goes on. The shine diminishes as political ambitions heighten, and tensions accumulate.

The Final Night of the Legislative Session

The most dangerous night in Utah government is the final night of the legislature. Utah has a forty-five-day limit on its legislative session. By the forty-fifth day, the budget and other essential bills

were usually finished. However, there was always a backlog of bills that had passed in one house but not the other. This was one of the predictable sources of conflict between the two bodies.

Generally, late in the afternoon of the last day, both bodies would start racing in to finish before the clock ran out. Almost every legislator would have bills they wanted passed, so everybody had an incentive to play along. Bill after bill would come up. Legislators would give a thirty-second explanation. Debate was frowned on because it meant fewer bills would get passed. If a bill was amended, somebody would physically run to the other chamber carrying the bill, with the hopes that the leadership of the other house would allow a concurring vote.

On the last night of the legislative session, I would sit in my office monitoring developments. My staff would periodically come in and report developments or ask for direction. Occasionally, a legislator

would bring a family member in to visit and take a picture. We would be checking off the final bills on our agenda as they passed. One year, I even walked to the back door of the House—something nearly unheard of for the governor—and said directly to the majority leader, whose desk was next to the back door, “You committed to me that (a certain bill) would be voted upon. We have six minutes left. Let’s get it done.” Tempers would always flare. It was simply craziness.

There was another category of legislation that would be held for the last night of the session: bills that somebody in leadership wanted to pass, but for tactical reasons they didn’t want to debate. The tax increase I described earlier is a good example. Sometimes, legislation was deferred because it was controversial, or because of the special interests it would help. During those final six hours, an astonishing percentage of bills were passed.

Senate Chambers, Utah State Capitol

When the clock struck midnight, pencils were put down and the craziness turned to weariness. A delegation would be sent to inform the governor that they had concluded their business. I would be invited to close the legislature by addressing each house.

I always tried to keep my remarks on the lighter side, laced with gratitude for their service. If the close of the legislature marked the end of a particular lawmaker’s service because of retirement, I would mention him or her by name. Slowly, people would collect their things and head for home.

One of my favorite days at the State Capitol was the day after the legislature concluded. Typically, everything would start a bit later because of the late night. The dull roar which had filled the building over the previous forty-five days was replaced by a wonderful silence. “It was,” as a friend of mine said, “like having 104 house guests leave after a forty-five-day visit.”

Our work was not done, though. A new phase started—bill review and signing. The governor has twenty days after adjournment to sign, veto, or let a bill go into law without signature. With 350 or more bills passed each year, this was a significant ask.

However, the two or three days right after the legislature ended was a good time to get away, either with my family or with friends. All the bills just enacted had to be processed, checked, and conveyed to the Governor’s Office, and my head needed to clear.

Our bill review process resembled a factory. The governor’s general counsel, Robin Riggs and then Gary Doxey, were responsible for leading the effort each year. Bills were divided into piles and sent to the individual in the GOPB that dealt with that issue. The staff member would review it and send it back to me. At first, I tried to physically read or review each bill, but that proved to be quite

difficult. Bills are written in a language unique to the legislative process. Bill drafters strike out the old law from the code using hash marks and insert the new language in parentheses. This makes understanding the specific changes intended by the bill convoluted and time consuming, especially when language is being moved from section to section.

Soon, I realized that trying to deal with each bill that way was unproductive, so I asked my staff to create three piles. First, those that I should sign because we had agreed to it in advance or had no objection. Second, those that required discussion. Finally, those that they recommended I veto.

Veto Power

The veto is one of the important powers of the governor. Vetoing a bill did not mean the discussion was over, of course. The legislature could call themselves back into session for the purpose of overriding the veto—something they loved the thought of doing.

A veto is enacted simply by writing a formal letter to the legislature referencing the bill by number, announcing it has been vetoed, and then giving an explanation. Sometimes a veto disappointed only the legislator who passed the bill but generated little real controversy. Other times, vetoes would set off a firestorm.

I made a point of exercising the veto every year. Generally, I would veto five to ten bills. It wasn’t hard to find bills I thought were a bad idea. Almost every year there were bills that had been inadequately debated and passed on the last night of the session that were simply terrible policy. It also kept my capacity to threaten a veto credible. However, there is a price to pay for every veto.

I would typically announce vetoed bills the last day of bill signing, always calling the sponsoring legislator first to explain. Those were never happy calls. Many times, legislators felt a bit embarrassed, angry, or both. Almost every year, there would be an attempt to organize a veto override session among the legislators. Several years they got close. We would scurry around working with friends to

assure they couldn’t get the support required. Sometimes we had to trade assurances of future actions. Almost always, I had public sentiment with me, and legislators were mad, but not interested in fighting the public.

I did not have a veto overridden for nine straight legislative sessions. Then in my tenth session, it became clear they were going to override the governor, just to prove they could. They chose to override an obscure technical amendment on a bill dealing with municipal bonds. I didn’t even contest it.

Once we had decided which bills to sign, which to veto and so on, each bill required four signatures. The governor’s, enacting it into law; the lieutenant governor’s, acknowledging the bill and conveying it back to the legislator; and witnesses to each of those signatures. Finding the right page, signing one’s name, affixing the Seal of the State and passing each one back and forth took hours. It was tedious.

I started trying to figure a more efficient way to get the bills processed. We developed an assembly-line process where the staff would line up tables in the Governors Board Room and turn the bill open to the signing page. The lieutenant governor and I, along with a person who wielded the State Seal from the lieutenant governor’s office, would walk around the table and simply sign our names. This sped the process up.

As time went on, we continued to work on getting more efficient. To measure our efficiency, we would time how long it took us to do twenty bills at a time. I’m afraid some of the signatures on those bills weren’t my best penmanship. It probably doesn’t matter since I’d venture a strong guess that in the twelve decades since Utah became a state, no one has ever scrutinized a passed and processed bill after it was filed with the State Archives.

Special Sessions of the Legislature

The framers of Utah’s Constitution did a wise thing when they established a forty-five-day calendar limit. It means that the legislature has to get down to business. Over the first one hundred years

of the state’s history, the session length changed. Until it was changed by constitutional amendment, the legislature met for sixty days in even years and thirty days, in what was known as a “budget session,” during the odd years. During the budget years, only budget matters could be considered. I think it appropriate that by constitutional amendment, the system changed to a forty-five-day general session each year.

However, sometimes business can’t wait for the regular session of the legislature. The catalyst might be a natural disaster, a budget problem, some unfinished business from the general session, an unusual opportunity, or the fact that a problem simply needs to be solved. In these cases, the State Constitution grants the governor the authority to call the legislature into a session to deal with specific matters.1 The list of matters is referred to as the “call.”

During my governorship, I called the legislature into special session about thirteen times. I received good counsel from people who had managed special sessions to not call the legislature into session until there was consensus for a solution to the problem motivating the session.

I mentioned the first special session I called in order to remedy the school construction property tax increase I had vetoed. The second came only a few months later. Utah had been involved in contentious litigation with a group of federal retirees. The court ruled that the state had improperly taxed their retirement benefits. We needed to pay damages, and the only way it could be done was by legislative action. I had come to an agreement with legislative leaders on how to go about it.

Since we were going to have a special session anyway, I concluded to add some items to the call, one that involved illegal access to guns by minors, a measure that had been filed in the general session but failed to be acted upon—largely because it had

been proposed by a Democrat. During the summer of 1993, Utah had suffered a series of ruthless shootings and tragic gang violence involving young people. People were both angry and frightened that this was happening in Utah and I wanted to make changes. I also wanted to solve some prison crowding problems.

To highlight the issue, I organized a gang summit and asked for the cooperation of the state’s media. The evening before the special session, we had an event in the rotunda of the Capitol focused on how we could stop gang violence. It was televised statewide and included an impassioned plea for the state to act, made by Sherwin and Karen Watkins, a Provo couple whose twenty-two-year-old son was stabbed to death at a New York City subway platform as he fought back against a gang of violent muggers. Every one of the measures sailed through the legislature the next day.

While legislators didn’t like special sessions, as governor I found them to be rather effective tools under the right circumstances. The governor controlled when the legislature met and what they would consider, and the governor still held the veto option if the outcome was not to his or her liking. It proved to be an excellent way to focus the agenda on a single issue and get things done that proved difficult in the general session.

Most of the special sessions were called to recalibrate the state budget during periods when revenues were falling short of our original estimates.

Legislative Leaders

During my service, I worked with three Senate presidents and three Speakers of the House of Representatives. I had positive relationships with all of them.

I came to understand the differences between the culture of the House of Representatives and that of the Senate. Because of its larger size, the House was much more difficult to control. Speakers

1. This was changed in 2018, when voters approved a constitutional amendment allowing the legislature to call itself into special session. The legislature proposed an amendment to the Utah Constitution allowing them (legislators) to call themselves into session for a series of emergency situations. It was cleverly written in a way that essentially gives them the capacity to call themselves into session just about any time. There was nobody incentivized to campaign against it and it won. This was a significant shift of power in favor of the legislature.

have to mirror or reflect their caucus rather than lead it. They get their power by controlling the committee assignments and assigning loyalists to lead them. Speakers control the agenda and the flow of debate—and if a member is not cooperative, their bills don’t seem to ever get to the floor for debate.

The Senate is smaller and therefore more collegial. The Senate president maintains control through one-on-one relationships and by sharing power. The Senate is more reflective and less likely to do reactionary things. I counted on the Senate to smooth over some of the foolishness that often happened in the House of Representatives.

The way the Utah Legislature worked, if you were not in the majority party, your chances of passing significant legislation were very low. Everything was decided in caucus. So, all you needed in order to prevail was to be a majority of a majority. There were many times that if the minority party votes could be added to the minority votes within the Republican caucus, they could have prevailed. However, the Speaker’s job was to assure that never

happened. He would find ways to isolate and punish those who deviated from caucus positions.

Legislators are a cross section of people. As individuals, nearly all of them are agreeable and well-intentioned. However, there is a pack mentality that sometimes takes over at times during the session, creating very human dynamics. It is a reminder of why checks and balances are important in a democracy—those checks and balances protect the citizenry from the flaws of human nature that often find their way into legislative process. We truly have a government of the people.

14

Governors Organizations

Ten days after the election of 1992, Jackie and I attended the New Governor’s Conference in Colorado Springs, which was sponsored by the National Governors Association (NGA), an organization that would figure prominently in my life the next decade. The meeting was attended by the new governors elected that year: Ed Schafer of North Dakota, Marc Racicot of Montana, Mel Carnahan of Missouri, and me, Mike Leavitt of Utah. The governor of

Vermont, Howard Dean, was also included because he had only been governor a year, taking office when his predecessor died in office.

A faculty of standing governors and NGA staff conducted a school designed to be a crash course on how to be governor. We newcomers were all hungry to learn, and we were riding a wave of excitement over the anticipation of taking office.

The group was small and intimate. There was no discussion of party or ideology. One subject at

President Bill Clinton at the National Governors Association convention, Washington, D.C., 2000

a time, sitting governors would talk about their successes and failures. I still reference these lessons I had learned at the New Governors School.

I remember Bruce Sundlun of Rhode Island describing his 30/30/40 Rule: “The success of proposals you make will be determined 30 percent on the basis of substance, 30 percent by how you package it, and 40 percent by who you tell in advance.” I don’t know if the percentages are right, but he made a point I have never forgotten.

tank, and then emptying it out on the right kinds of projects. I still remember stories he told about the mistake he’d made at a public demonstration when he picked up a protestor’s sign and later saw his image on the front page of all the statewide newspapers.

Other sessions dealt with budgeting, relationships with cabinet officials and the lieutenant governor. Each session included a candid question-and -answer session.

Perhaps the most poignant sessions were the ones with our wives, as governors and first ladies spoke candidly of the hard lessons they had learned about protecting their children and family.

“ 30/30/40 Rule: The success of proposals you make will be determined 30 percent on the basis of substance, 30 percent by how you package it, and 40 percent by who you tell in advance.”

The very colorful governor of Tennessee was Ned McWherter, a very southern style governor with a thick southern accent type right out of central casting. He liked cigars, had a round belly, bushy eyebrows, a thick Tennessee accent, and an unforgettable laugh. He described how he had dealt with legislators reluctant to support his road construction budget. “I bring ’em to my office and sit them right at my knee. Then, I’d reach into my drawer and pull out a picture of a yellow D-9 Caterpillar. Then I’d say, ‘Representative, do you know what that is?’

They would respond, ‘It’s a D-9 Cat.’

Then I’d say, ‘Well Representative, you better take a long look at that picture, because if I don’t have your vote on the transportation plan, it will be the last D-9 Cat your county is going to see for a long time.’”

Carroll Campbell, a southern gentleman with a mellifluous South Carolina drawl, taught different models of organizing a staff. Roy Romer of Colorado used an analogy of filling up a political-capital

Governors told stories of the way they dealt with media intrusion. I remember the governor of Nevada, Bob Miller, describing how the media went through the family’s garbage and analyzed their grocery bills.

There was candid talk about the tensions that arise over scheduling and the struggle to find time to be alone. A marriage professional talked about how to protect our marriages.

Jackie and the other first ladies discussed ways of managing the expectations of the job and family priorities. The main message was “You have to do it your way.”

In the years that followed, I was on the faculty several times. Jackie and I even played host one year. The November 2000 orientation was held in Park City, just a week after I won my third term in office and finished a stint as head of the NGA.

One of the most important sessions to me focused on the role of the National Governors Association. Nearly every state participates as members, paying dues based on the size of the state. The NGA is an independent nonprofit organization, carefully designed to preserve a nonpartisan tone. The chair and vice chair alternate between Republican and Democrat, each serving one-year terms.

GOVERNORS ORGANIZATIONS

1 Bobsledding at the Olympic Park

2 Jackie and the first lady of North Dakota, Nancy Schafer

3 Republican Governors Association meeting. From left: Mike Huckabee, AK; Bill Owens, CO; Ed Schafer, ND; Mike Leavitt, UT; Don Sundquist, TN

4 Wives of the governors

5 Leavitt family at a Republican Governors Association meeting held in Park City. From left : Westin, Mike, Anne Marie, Mike S., Jackie, Chase, and Taylor

6 Western Governors’ Association. From left :, Ben Nelson, NE; Pete Domenici, NM; Mike Leavitt, UT; Jim Souby, executive director, Ed Schafer, ND; Fife Symington, AZ

The organization is governed by a nine-person board. When the chair is a Republican, the Democrats have five members of the board. When the chair is Democrat, the board lineup reverses to a Republican majority. All of this is designed to encourage fairness and the avoidance of partisan politics. Partisanship was not eliminated altogether, but to a large extent it worked.

At the New Governors School, veteran governors described the policy process of the NGA and how bipartisan groups of governors meet with members of Congress to advance the cause of states. There was a lot of encouragement for new governors to actively engage. As I listened to the discussion, I concluded I wanted to be heavily involved. I liked the productive tone, the substance, and the relationships.

As if to remind all the newly elected governors that we had not left the world of politics, we all departed Colorado Springs and flew directly to meetings of the Republican Governors Association (RGA) or Democratic Governors Association. The RGA meeting was held in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where Governor Tommy Thompson served as host.

Unlike the NGA conference, the RGA session was all about politics. Pollsters provided analysis on what had occurred in the election and looked ahead to the future. Members of the Republican congressional leadership team joined us. There was substantial overlap on the policy issues we discussed, but this time with a decidedly partisan bent. Media was a daily fixture at the event, something not allowed at NGA. I was somewhat acquainted with the RGA staff and the organization already as they had provided assistance to me during the election.

Shortly after I was inaugurated, I attended yet another governors group, the Western Governors’ Association (WGA). The WGA encompasses twelve states from Hawaii to Texas, but its core group is the interior western states. The organization is headquartered in Denver. It is a bipartisan group that operates similarly to the NGA but deals primarily with western issues.

The final major organization I became heavily involved in for a time was the Council of State

Governments (CSG). Located in Lexington, Kentucky, the CSG was the place that governors, state legislators, and other state officials came together.

Over the course of the next decade, I chose to devote significant time and energy to all four of these organizations. Each played a different role in my productivity as a governor, and the combination of the four provided me with important relationships that added greatly to my effectiveness. The NGA, RGA, and CSG provided leverage for my efforts to return power to the States, while the Western Governors’ Association was the vehicle through which Western Governors University was created.

Republican Governors Association

My pathway to leadership in the National Governors Association came about via my involvement with RGA—and my rise in the RGA had been aided substantially by good timing.

In recent years, the position of RGA chair has become a platform that aspiring governors use to rise to national attention. Mitt Romney used it while he was governor of Massachusetts to propel his candidacy for president in 2008. Governor Chris Christie of New Jersey did the same in 2014. In those years, the organization raised $80 to $100 million on campaign efforts to ensure that Republican governors were elected. Over the last twenty-five years, the association has expanded and become a much more prominent entity.

In 1993, there were only nineteen Republican governors in the United States. Four of those, including me, were elected in 1992. The party lost the presidency to Bill Clinton that year and controlled neither the House nor the Senate. The previous year, the RGA had raised less than $2 million and had a staff of just an executive director and a few others. It was not a particularly robust organization.

By mid 1993, I had begun to formulate a plan to organize the states to become more assertive regarding our role in American governance. My plans to develop a Conference of States, had begun to gain significant momentum. I needed a platform to begin working with Republican governors, and the RGA seemed ideal.

GOVERNORS ORGANIZATIONS

As I surveyed the field, most of the other eighteen Republican governors were either leaving office, running for reelection, or had already been RGA chair. I concluded to launch a quiet campaign to become RGA vice chair in 1994, knowing that I would then move to chair in 1995.

Campaigns within governors’ organizations are generally done in a low-key way. People who want to assume a role begin circulating with the other members, making their interests known and asking for support. I think there were others who expressed interest, but by the time we got to the November meeting, I had secured the necessary support.

The vice chair traditionally assumed the role as chief fundraiser of RGA. The chair, Maine governor John McKernan, was leaving office at the conclusion of his position as chair and was content to allow me to do all I was willing to do. In previous years, with George H.W. Bush in the White House, most of the RGA money had been raised through one annual dinner. Without the White House or control of either house of Congress, as well as RGA having only nineteen governors (and most of them

from smaller states) finding a fundraising hook was a challenge.

I developed a format called “Governors Forums.” I asked each member of RGA to agree to attend a handful of events around the country. Organizations would pay $25,000 to belong to the RGA Governors Forums, and for that fee they could have very intimate conversations with three to five rotating governors at interesting places around the country. It was a success. That year we broke all previous records for RGA fundraising, bringing in—what would seem small by comparison now— $4 million.

Serving as RGA vice chair provided me three important assets. First, it was a reason (with a budget) to visit other governors. I flew all over the country raising money and delivering checks. It was a great way to build relationships with not just standing governors, but also incoming governors. Second, I was able to define, in significant measure, the theme around which the RGA would operate. I chose a federalism theme, returning power to the states. Finally, it positioned me to emerge as the leader of the Republican governors in the larger NGA.

Republican Governors Conference, Utah State Olympic Park.

On Election Day 1994, the earth moved. It was a nationwide Republican landslide, with people rejecting the direction of the country. For the first time in more than a half century, Republicans won control of both the House of Representatives and the Senate. The new Speaker of the House would be Newt Gingrich and the emerging Senate Majority Leader was Bob Dole of Kansas.

In my world, the big news was the election of twenty-nine Republican governors. Republicans were not just elected in numbers; they were elected in large states like New York and California. Among many unexpected victories was the governorship of Texas. George W. Bush, the son of the former President George H. W. Bush, was elected, defeating the prominent incumbent Governor Ann Richards. I had been in Texas to campaign with George W. Bush, not only visiting but delivering RGA money.

What happened next can only be described as providential.

Just as it had two years prior, the RGA scheduled its annual meeting right after the New Governors Conference, ten days after the general election. I had chosen to hold the meeting in historical Williamsburg, Virginia. It was a decision aimed at augmenting the theme of “Returning Power to the States.” Because the RGA Conference was the first political gathering after the election, it became the center of the political universe. The national media swarmed the event, as did corporate sponsors, lobbyists, and others. The facilities were inadequate, creating an exciting chaos.

The centerpiece of the Williamsburg meeting was a meeting between the new governors’ majority and the new leadership of Congress. It set the stage for a dramatic period of great change in American government. It was also a period of unparalleled collaboration between governors and Congress.

I assumed the position of RGA chair at that meeting. A remarkable series of events had put me right at the center of the action during a period of transformation. I feel confident in saying that in modern times there has never been a period when governors played a more prominent role in national

policymaking than they did in the two years that followed. This, and the Conference of States, is covered in more detail in Chapter 2: Federalism, located in volume IV, A Sacred Trust.

National Governors Association

My role in the Republican Governors Association provided a close working relationship with every Republican governor and most of the Democrat governors. So, when the executive committee of NGA was appointed by the chair and vice-chair, it was logical I would be assigned. While not automatic, this ultimately set me up to become vice chair of NGA in July 1997 and chair in July 1998.

The National Governors Association is a policy body. States have common interests on many matters. Every state has essentially the same types of problems and has to confront them, albeit differently. As the federal government has pushed into areas outside those specifically enumerated by the Constitution, NGA became the place where states united to effect federal action.

In order to arrive at policy positions that unify the governors, NGA has developed a policy process. Position papers are written and then refined through debate and discussion, and then either approved as a formal position or rejected. Once approved, those who represent the states through NGA are bound to stick within the policy positions reflected in those documents.

Often there are ideological differences that make agreement on a policy difficult to achieve. Likewise, politics and personalities often complicate matters, but the construct of the organization is sound and its contribution unique. The policies would be worked on by staff and then voted upon at either the annual meeting in July or the midyear meeting in Washington, D.C.

Forty governors and many other interested parties attended the July NGA conference. Generally, the attendance exceeds one thousand people. For my family and I, attendance at NGA became a family tradition, and the hosts would typically organize a family agenda. We have wonderful memories of those events. Through the NGA conferences, the

children of governors got to know one another as well. They had experiences in common and looked forward to seeing each other.

In January or February, NGA organizes a winter meeting in D.C., and it is always held at the J.W. Marriott. In addition to debating policy positions, meeting with congressional leaders, and discussing various policy themes, we would often meet with the president of the United States and his cabinet.

During the time I was governor, there were two presidents who served, both former governors. Bill Clinton loved governors. He had been governor of Arkansas for twelve years and served as chair of the NGA. Once president, he rolled out the red carpet for governors. Often, I was part of small groups that visited the White House for policy discussions. Usually the president, vice president, the White House staff, and cabinet would assemble in the East Room. They would spend a couple of hours in discussion. You could tell President Clinton really enjoyed it.

To my disappointment, George W. Bush seemed quite ambivalent toward governors. Worse, his staff at times seemed openly hostile. There were several times when he failed to meet for any significant amount of time with us as a group. His staff didn’t like the bipartisan nature. They were driving a conservative agenda and resented that a majority of governors were Republicans and yet didn’t produce policies that were strictly aligned with administration wishes. There was even a time when a coalition of conservative organizations tried, via a majority of Republicans serving on the executive committee of NGA, to get the longtime executive director of the organization, Ray Scheppach, fired. I killed the plan, telling its backers, “On this matter, you don’t have five votes.”

While I found the Bush White House attitude irritating and frankly a bit embarrassing, it was somewhat understandable. George W. Bush was governor for only one term and he governed a very large state. Large states tend not to feel the need for collective clout. Rick Perry, his successor, was substantially worse in his attitude toward NGA. It was an attitude of “We’re Texas, we don’t need NGA.” He actually withdrew from the organization.

In an interesting way, Bush’s lack of interest toward NGA benefited me. At times George Bush did need the NGA and RGA. We knew each other because of my RGA work, and when he did come to various events we sat together. So, when he knew an issue was percolating at NGA that would affect Texas, he’d just call me and ask if I would look after Texas’s interest. This was true on both Medicaid reform and welfare reform. In a way, I became his problem solver. I’m sure the relationship that developed between us contributed to the invitation I received to join his cabinet.

The Western Governors’ Association

It is impractical for the National Governors Association to be involved in all the regional issues that exist in each unique region of the country. So over time, governors began to organize regional associations. The Western Governors’ Association (WGA) was formed in 1984, in large part because of the efforts of Utah Governor Scott Matheson.

The organization seemed to focus most on regional energy, public lands, transportation, and environmental issues. In many ways WGA resembled NGA. It was organized to emphasize bipartisan collaboration. It operated through a policy process, driven by a staff council made up of staff members from each governor. However, there was a full-time staff located in Denver, along with a Washington staffer, who shared space coincidentally with our Utah State Office in Washington, D.C. The WGA was led by Jim Souby, who had previously served in the Alaska Governor’s Office. Jim and I worked closely together for many years at WGA. He later took over a policy institute I formed.

The WGA took the lead in developing policies that involved multiple states. For example, when hazardous waste is hauled from state to state, it is necessary to have protocols and agreements on how it will be handled. Shortly after the Bush Administration took office, there was an electric power transmission crisis in the western states. WGA became the vehicle through which the states worked together. There were groups that worked on

1 Western Governors’ Association meeting. From left : Ed Schafer, ND; Tony Knowles, AK; Jim Geringer, WY; Mike Leavitt, UT

2 From left: Gray Davis, CA; Mike Leavitt, UT; Parris Glendening, MD

3 From left: Schafer, Mike, Mike Johanns, NE

4 Ben Nelson handing over chairmanship of Western Goverernors’ Association to Mike

5 Washington, D.C., NGA conference

6 Jackie and Mike at a Park City WGA meeting

forestry issues such as fire and disease. We dealt jointly with the federal government on water issues, road issues, and other public land issues.

At times, WGA served as an agent to carry out arrangements we negotiated with the federal government. Congress was considering legislation compelling the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) to develop a plan to clean up the air over the Grand Canyon. It was of great concern to states surrounding the canyon that the EPA would create regulations negatively affecting their economies in order to fix a problem in Arizona. WGA negotiated an agreement to let the states develop a collaborative plan to solve the problem and then became the convener. I became co-chair of that effort—the Western Regional Air Partnership. I have written extensively about the experience in a book I co-wrote, titled Finding Allies, Building Alliances. The experience was among the first times I began to focus on the process of structuring collaborative problem solving.

I later used WGA as the vehicle to form Western Governors University. The idea was conceived at a WGA conference in Park City. The initial research and organizing activities were financed and organized through WGA, hence the name of the university.

I also pushed an initiative to develop smart-card delivery of various benefit programs. WGA also became the initial vehicle through which I developed and deployed the environmental philosophy known as Enlibra, a Latin coinage meaning “moving toward balance.”

My leadership role at WGA occurred in a fashion similar to RGA. The position of chair is alternated between Republican and Democrat. In 1993, several Republican members were up for election, leaving office, or had served as WGA chair. I concluded to accept the role of WGA chair early in my term, primarily because I felt it would be a vehicle to propel my ideas on federalism.

Council of State Governments

The NGA, RGA, and WGA were organizations of governors. Obviously, governors are not the only influencers of state policy. State legislators, the

courts and other statewide officers share influence. Each of those have formed groups to optimize their strength and to educate people serving in those roles. For example, the National Conference of State Legislatures exists to serve state legislative bodies.

The Council of State Governments (CSG) is a Lexington, Kentucky–based organization that brings all of those groups together on issues. As my federalism efforts began to mature, it became clear that all three branches of state governments would be needed in order to affect any change in direction. Consequently, I agreed to chair CSG as well during my first term.

The Council of State Governments became the key organization connecting my work with governors, state legislatures and state courts. Dan Sprague, the executive director, was a true believer in the important role states should play and threw the resources of the entire organization behind my efforts to organize the Conference of States. I write about those experiences in a later chapter, but putting the organization in context with other organizations is important to understanding the job of governor.

These four organizations became a significant part of life for the next sixteen years. Even after I moved from being governor to a cabinet member in the George W. Bush Administration, I interacted with them constantly. States coordinated efforts through the sponsorship and coordination of these four groups. Each group had a niche it filled. The NGA was the most important policy influence. The WGA was the most productive in terms of undertaking meaningful joint action.

The RGA was important because it mirrored the highly partisan way in which Congress functions. The Republican caucuses in both chambers of Congress operate politically and become highly suspicious of NGA. So, much of our interaction involving Congress was conducted through RGA. This was far less than ideal in my view because RGA didn’t have the policy capacity of NGA.

One could legitimately question why I spent so much time involved in different multi-state organizations. Some governors choose to be minimally

engaged. I chose to engage heavily for two reasons. First, the idea of federalism was fundamental to my philosophy. Boosting the collective viability of states, including Utah, was part of the commitment I made upon being elected. Secondly, many of the things I needed to accomplish as governor of Utah required a coalition of states.

I feel confident that my raw time allocation to these national organizations was between 10 to 15 percent. I served as vice chair and then chair of all four. For most of my service I was on the executive committee of all three of the governors’ organizations. Those roles do not begin to describe the deep involvement I had with a small group of other governors and congressional leaders on a variety of matters during a remarkable period of time when state and federal officials became seriously engaged.

Was it the right decision? Absolutely, and I would do it again. A strong but limited national government is essential. However, history will show that as the federal government encroached on the role of states, government became less effective and more remote from the people. This fact lies at the heart of the way government spending has spiraled out of control. It is fundamental to how generations have become shackled by debts of their forebears. It is also responsible for a sense of entitlement that has become part of the fabric of American life.

Politics

I have Republicanism in my blood. My Grandmother Okerlund was treasurer of the Wayne County Republican Party for nearly fifty years. She often told me it was just fine if I married a Catholic, but she wanted it known that she would not be pleased with a Democrat.

By fourth grade, it had taken root. In 1960, I represented Richard Nixon in a school version of the Nixon-Kennedy presidential debates.

My father, Dixie Leavitt, became a Republican state legislator when I was in the sixth grade. So, naturally I felt it was a shot at me—and my dad—when a school principal made announcements over the public address system about the mistreatment of teachers by the legislature.

I would spend a week at the legislature with my father each year, and because of that, from high school on I was aware of current events and politics. And in college, for a class in which I had to write about a political figure I admired, I chose Tennessee Senator Howard Baker, a Republican who handled himself with dignity and competence as ranking minority member at the Watergate hearings in 1973. The first Utah Republican convention I attended as a delegate was a year later, in 1974.

It was in 1976, however, when I became heavily involved in the Republican Party. My father had decided to run for the GOP nomination for governor. As a twenty-five-year-old, I managed his campaign. His candidacy came

much to the displeasure of party leaders, who had determined in their wisdom that another candidate, Attorney General Vernon Romney, would be the Republican nominee. Our campaign greatly exceeded expectations, finishing first in the state convention and forcing Romney into a primary. We came close in the primary but could not eke out the win. Through that process, though, I became a player in the Republican Party of Utah.

The campaign of 1976 triggered a long string of future campaign involvements. From 1978 through 1990, I managed the lead race in the state in each of the general election years, starting with Congressman Dan Marriott in the Salt Lake-based 2nd Congressional District. In 1980 and 1986, I led the two reelection campaigns of Senator Jake Garn. In 1982 and 1988, my efforts were devoted to Senator Orrin Hatch. In 1984, I spent nine months working on President Ronald Reagan’s reelection and helped get a new Republican governor, Norm Bangerter, elected. There were additional races as well, some in other states, others on specific ballot issues. Through it all, I was involved in the party’s most senior councils, both formal and informal.

Delegates and the Republican Party

All of that is background to 1992, when I was elected governor of Utah and, as such, became the informal head of the state party—wielding power above and beyond the party structure due to the gravitas of the office I held.

There is a special irony in that. From the beginning of my time in politics, I have disliked party politics. However, I quickly recognized that political parties have a function, and I well understood that I had to learn to navigate—and hopefully guide—those processes. Political parties are the mechanism for nominating candidates to public office, from the county and legislative levels up through congressional and statewide races. They have real power, though a surprisingly small group of people control them.

In Utah, the nature of the nominating process at that time made this particularly true. Delegates were elected in small neighborhood meetings— precinct caucuses—during election years and

participated in nominating candidates for general election offices. The theory was that delegates could meet all the candidates, get to know them on behalf of their neighbors, and then attend a party convention to winnow the field. At the convention, only delegates vote, eliminating the less viable candidates. If a candidate for office gains the support of 60 percent of the delegates, he or she advances to the general election. If no single candidate received 60 percent, the top two vote-getters run against each other in a primary election.

The system, at least in design, has virtue. But the process assumes that the delegates are a cross-section of the population of people who have a Republican ideology or view of the role of government. During my time in politics, whether as a consultant or officeholder, I did not find delegates to be representative; they did not mirror the population of people who considered themselves Republican or even conservative. Three-quarters of the delegates tended to be men, and a large swath of them, I believe, held political views that were not consistent with the center-right ideology of the typical Utah Republican voter.

Some of the most active delegates were more interested in the gamesmanship of politics than the statesmanship of it. They adopted dogma over practicality. They formulated partisan purity tests that were assigned greater value than workable solutions to thorny problems where honest disagreement existed. The delegate system created a class of “party hobbyists” whose primary joy was winning at the game.

There is nothing ignoble about being willing to serve in a political party. Rather, it is a real public service. But I’ve come to understand that motive is a critical component in service. Service is selfless. Society often looks with suspicion on lobbyists because they trade influence for money.

Well, the political party equivalent of a lobbyist is a “hobbyist,” though I apply that label to a small group of obstructionists who love the intrigue of the party itself rather than the public good they claim to be doing. And, unlike lobbyists, they are unpaid volunteers.

The majority of delegates elected in party caucuses considered their job done once the election was over. However, a core of hobbyist delegates understood that in the off-years when a general election was not to be held, the party held an organizing convention, and it was there that the party chair and other officers were elected by the delegates. Generally, of 2,500 delegates, only 800 to 1,200 will attend. Getting the non-hobbyist regular citizen delegates to attend is often a challenge. They usually have better things to do on a springtime Saturday morning. If the regular citizen delegates don’t come, the hobbyists have great influence at the nominating convention and use the opportunity to implement policies and processes that protect their influence.

Regularly, factions of party hobbyists would conflict with one another. This was particularly true at the county-party level. It was not unusual to have party members suing others over rules debates. It was foolish and embarrassing. The worse it got, the less regular citizens wanted to participate.

Making the matter more complicated, at the party convention a central committee is elected. This is a group of about three hundred delegates who serve as a board of directors for the party, making decisions between conventions. The state central committee meets regularly. Consequently, only the most devoted of the party hobbyists seek to serve. Both the size of the group and the nature of their ideology makes them a very difficult group. This had a significant impact not just on the major offices but also the quality and ideology of the people who served in the legislature. It also required candidates to adopt fewer mainstream positions in order to qualify for the primary ballot.

In a future volume I will recount how in 2013 I organized a citizen’s petition drive and successfully changed Utah’s nominating system. But to understand politics in Utah during the time of my service as governor, it is necessary to understand the challenge the party presented and how important it was to have a party chair who could manage all these dynamics.

Mike speaking at the 1996 Republican National Convention.

At the time I was elected, Bruce Hough was the party chair. Bruce did a fine job. However, when it became clear that he was not going to run for reelection, I actively recruited Joe Cannon, a savvy businessman, attorney, and friend who had run for the United States Senate unsuccessfully in 1992. As a candidate, Joe had mastered working with the delegates and come within a few delegate votes of getting the Republican nomination for U.S. Senate. He lost to Bob Bennett in a primary. Interestingly, Bob Bennett later lost his Senate seat when he was defeated by two newcomers at the 2010 Republican State Convention—an outcome that upset many Utahns, including me.

When we approached Joe about becoming chair, he agreed to do it, but only if I would help him make significant changes to the party structure. I was a willing participant. The goal was two-fold: get more regular Republicans elected as delegates and change the party’s constitution to diminish the capacity of a small number of ultra-right delegates to tie up the business processes.

I will not detail the efforts to get a better cross-section of people involved, but it was extensive. It included enlisting the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, asking them to urge their members to become good citizens, attend the party caucuses, and step up their engagement with the process.

Efforts to get the party constitution changed were even more colorful. The changes were relatively minor—for example, there were tweaks to the percentages used in appointing members to the central committee. Change-making required getting a super-majority vote at the Republican State Convention. But there was a shortcut. Only a simple majority of delegates was needed if the party’s central committee recommended the changes. For us, it was essential to go the central committee route; the difficult trick was getting the more rational members of the committee to attend.

I put my political team to work. They organized the meeting at a state facility behind the Capitol and called the delegates in my name, asking as a favor to the governor that they come. Many of these people had to travel from rural Utah, so it was not a casual request.

The rules of the party required a quorum be present for voting. We got enough people to reach a quorum at the beginning of the meeting. However, it became obvious that the hobbyists who opposed our proposals had a plan. They would ensure that the debate went on all day so that gradually members would become disgusted, give up, and leave. Once the number fell below a majority, a quorum no longer held and the meeting could be closed down.

The meeting started at 8 a.m. By late morning, people were beginning to leave. By noon, people were hungry and angry. If just a small number left, the effort would fail.

“ Do you have a favorable or unfavorble impression of Mike Leavitt? ”

There are three doors in the auditorium where we met. I asked the lieutenant governor to sit at the fire door. I asked the state troopers who provided security at the Capitol to secure a second door with instructions to ask those who tried to leave to use a different door. I placed a chair squarely in front of the third main door, and there I sat. Nobody was getting out of that room until we had voted. People were getting quite impatient. As they approached the door I would say to them, “If you have an emergency, you’re certainly welcome to go. But if you do leave, the obstructionists here will win and everyone who made the effort to come will have wasted their day.” People voluntarily stayed.

Finally, around 2 p.m. we had a vote, and the measure passed. At the state convention there was a similar amount of drama, though it was not necessary or possible for the governor to sit in front of the door. However, this episode demonstrates why it is so important to have strong leadership at the party level. It also illustrates the mentality of the ideological hobbyists that are attracted to party politics.

Political Health

Through the eleven years I was governor, people were gratifyingly supportive. I think that was in part because of the culture of Utah—we tend to

sustain our leaders—and partly because of a strong economy. Then, too, people tended to agree with my policies and found our interactions acceptable.

Like any new governor, my first campaign introduced me, but it takes time for a public official to become known. Over time, you become well enough known that you begin to feel a relationship with every citizen in the state. You don’t know them personally, but people feel like they know you, and most folks had an opinion—one way or another. There is a familiarity exhibited that allows immediate connection.

Pollsters use a handful of questions to measure a public figure’s political health. One of the most common is the “favorability rating.” Specifically, it is phrased: “Do you have a favorable or unfavorable impression of Mike Leavitt?” And the question is expanded to list other officeholders or candidates as well. Each response is then pushed to establish the strength of the feeling. For example, if the response was favorable, the interviewer would ask, “Would that be very favorable or just somewhat favorable?”

My favorability ratings remained strong throughout my time as governor. They rose higher in the first few years and seemed to peak about midway through my second term. Toward the end of my time, three factors began to weigh my numbers down. The first was Olympic controversies, written about in a separate chapter. The second drag on ratings was a weakening economy. Lastly, over time a public person just accumulates “rocks in his backpack.” But all said, my favorability never got below 70 percent. To this day, I feel nothing but gratitude for being able to serve and feeling the sustaining support of so many Utah people.

The following chart was compiled by pollster Dan Jones on my behalf and lists favorability ratings each year of my time as governor.

Fundraising

For a host of reasons, governors are constantly fundraising. Not just for elections, but also for official duties where resources are needed, such as entertaining state guests at the Governor’s

Source: Dan Jones and Associates

Mansion, or traveling to events with a mixed political and official purpose. And all of these require non-public funds. Fundraising for a public official can be a very delicate matter because of the possibility of a donation being interpreted as an attempt to influence policy decisions. On a seemingly regular basis, a governor in the U.S. is convicted of criminal behavior because they let their guard down or stepped over an ethical line.

“ I feel nothing but gratitude for being able to serve.”

I was grateful for the safeguards we had in place to keep a safe distance from anything that could be considered unethical. The first was a quite sensible law in Utah. Our state has few restrictions on how one can give money or how much. However, the law requires complete transparency. We were required to report publicly any donation to the state’s chief election officer within the Lieutenant Governor’s Office. Second, I had a staff who worked hard to avoid putting me in any situation that could be misinterpreted. Third, governors before me had established a method of fundraising that was understood and disclosed. It was a separate account called the Governor’s Gala Account by my predecessors and redubbed the Governor’s Special Projects Account during my tenure. Lastly, I simply felt no temptation to even come close to the line on this kind of thing.

We did fundraising mostly through events. Each year we held a Governors’ Gala, a large and somewhat lavish social event with entertainment and a meal. Some of the notable galas had well-known performing acts—the band America one year; country music star and actor Glen Campbell in another. At one gala, after the Olympics scandal had died down a bit, there was a humorous audience participation song about the Olympics “The Twelve Days of Scandal”—adapted from the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” That same gala also had a comic rendition of Harry Belafonte’s hit song “Day-O (The Banana

Boat Song)” renamed “The Legislature Song,” and performed by sports broadcaster Craig Bolerjack and members of my security detail.

Besides the galas, we also held a corporate event each year called the “Cast and Blast.” It was held at my family’s ranch in Loa and became a favorite among attendees. During that period our family was operating a “rod and gun” club where members could fish in our private ponds and hunt pheasants in our fields. Both the fields and the ponds were managed to ensure success. At the Cast and Blast fundraiser, we recruited several governors to join me, and donors fished and hunted alongside them. It was what fundraisers call a high-dollar event. Each participant donated ten to twenty-five thousand dollars. The proceeds were shared among the campaigns who organized the event. One year, Governor Christine Todd Whitman came out from New Jersey. As an added attraction, the two of us put on a cutting horse exhibition, where a rider and horse work together to separate a single cow from a herd.

Lastly, each year, I would hold a golf tournament. All of these events were handled through the Governor’s Special Projects Account, with proceeds transferred to our campaign committees or whatever entity that was required. Both contributions and expenditures were reported quarterly.

We raised money to maintain and improve the Governor’s Mansion through an Artist Series we created. Every quarter we would honor a particular Utah artist at a ceremony, designating that person a “Mansion Artist,” complete with a beautiful medal. A group of about fifty patrons paid $2,000 a year to attend. The event was held in the Governor’s Mansion ballroom. During the renovation period, of course, we did not hold these. But when we did, they were lovely events. I really enjoyed the lift it gave Utah artists.

We had a wonderful team of people who year after year did the hard work of putting on events. Max Farbman was involved for nearly the entire time I was governor. He was mostly a manager of relationships. The people who really drove the process and made the events happen were Amy Hansen and Allyson Bell. They were joined by a group of volunteers who were extremely loyal to Jackie and me.

1-6 Cast and Blast fundraiser event at the Leavitt Ranch in Loa

The Republican county party organizations financed themselves in major part by a Lincoln Day dinner. It was a well-known pattern and tradition. Typically, these had a guest speaker and a local party chair who felt it necessary to ask for brief remarks from a dozen officials. The aggregate always added to a very long night. After a few years, I quit trying to be at many of them. Sometimes Jackie would attend one, but always under protest.

Campaign Years

I did not have serious opposition in my first run for reelection in 1996. Democrat Jim Bradley, a Salt Lake County commissioner, decided to run. He is a fine man and a friend. The truth is, he never mounted a serious campaign. I had an 80 percent job approval rating at the time. Things were going well in the economy and otherwise. I won by a record margin, more than 74 percent. I won every county in Utah, something that had never been done before statewide by a Republican candidate. Charlie Evans managed the campaign, and my Governor’s Office team supplemented it heavily.

“ Leavitt is no shrinking violet.”

The year 1996 was also a presidential election year. Because I had been working so closely with Senate Majority Leader Bob Dole via the Republican Governors Association, it was natural for me to support him for president. However, I waited until January 16, 1996, to endorse him because of my role as RGA chair.

Senator Dole stopped in Utah at the State Capitol for my public endorsement. He said some nice things about my role in negotiating Medicaid and welfare reform on behalf of the governors. He also publicly referenced a somewhat tense exchange we had on the phone a few months earlier over what the governors felt we needed in the proposed laws enacting the reforms. Dole told the Deseret News, “Leavitt is no shrinking violet. We’ve had some tough telephone conversations.”1 Dole had been obviously

angry in the previous phone call with me, provoked, I believe, by a remark I made in the media. His follow-up comment was a way of saying he was over it and wanted to move forward as friends.

After the news conference, we held a legislative reception in the Capitol and then a fundraiser. I agreed to serve as Dole’s Utah chair.

Co-Chair of the National Platform Committee

Haley Barbour was chair of the Republican National Committee (RNC) in 1996. He was the finest leader the party had during my active involvement. A well-respected lobbyist from Mississippi, he had worked in political affairs in the Reagan White House and was a very savvy, affable, and folksy character. He understood the potential that Republican governors had as a group to affect national policy and so was heavily involved in brokering the full participation of governors with congressional leaders. Later, Haley ran for governor in his home state of Mississippi, where he served for two terms.

Haley called to ask if I would serve as a National Platform Committee co-chair at the RNC convention in San Diego. Note, there is no job I aspire to less than co-chairing the platform committee at a national convention. I had avoided those types of platform dramas regularly in my own state. I knew the RNC assignment would be a week of intense party hobbyists who saw this as a task of utmost importance to the nation, and thus would fight over every word. I also knew it would make virtually no difference in what actually happened.

The fact is, it did matter, but not for the reasons they thought it would. Ultimately, I agreed to co-chair the platform committee on the condition that I would be allowed to speak at the convention. The committee chair was Illinois Representative Henry Hyde, and I was co-chair along with Senator Paul Coverdell of Georgia.

Most of the document was written before the convention by a team at the national committee, but each state party nominated two delegates for the job. The experience turned out about the way I

1-3 Artist Series

4 Bruce Dibb, a family friend at the Governor’s Gala

5 -6 Governors Gala fundraiser

expected. Long debates during sessions, and then behind-the-scenes bickering and posturing on issues like abortion, immigration, and getting the United States out of the United Nations.

In the end we turned out an acceptable platform. It did not become an issue at the convention or in the election. The payoff for me was the relationships I built with the co-chairs and the party, plus the speaking slot during the convention.

Speaking at a national political convention is an honor. It is the highest forum a party has to offer. My selection made sense, in that I was chair of the Republican Governors Association and had paid my dues.

National Conventions are different on television than they are in the hall. The scene on the floor of a convention is pure chaos. There are thousands of conversations happening simultaneously with people moving about conducting personal

political business. With the exception of the nomination speeches and a few other notables headlining the evening, nobody pays a bit of attention to who is speaking.

Generally, the conventions are televised at length on cable television, and a couple hours of prime time would be picked up by the major networks. I was assigned to speak at 6:45 p.m. on a Thursday night. That was just a little over an hour before the nomination of the candidate, so it was an excellent time slot.

I prepared intensely, highlighting the theme of federalism that I had become well known for. George W. Bush, who was governor of Texas at the time, introduced me.

I walked onto the stage facing the mammoth San Diego Convention Center. Fortunately, I had been warned about what I would face or it would have been quite disconcerting, and a bit ego deflating.

1996 Republican National Convention, San Diego, California

Nobody was listening. People were walking around, having loud conversations—it was a festival. The task was to speak to the television audience of two to three million viewers. I used a teleprompter, so things went just fine. However, it felt somewhat anticlimactic and, frankly, quite strange.

Yet my work done in the trenches did not escape notice. Right after the convention, Time magazine had a feature on the rising stars in the Republican Party. My name was among them.2

Since Utah was a reliably Republican state, Senator Dole visited Utah only once during the campaign. With my own election on remote control, I spent most of my time campaigning for state legislators.

The only real startling thing that election year occurred when Bill Orton, a Democratic member of Congress from Utah’s 3rd congressional district, was defeated. He was a victim of President Clinton’s creation of the Grand Staircase National Monument in Southern Utah earlier that year. Republican businessman and venture capitalist Chris Cannon, younger brother of Joe Cannon, won the seat.

Orton’s defeat would have an unexpected impact on my political life.

The 2000 Election

I never seriously considered not running for a third term. I liked the job, I was in the middle of preparing for the Olympics, we had I-15 all torn up amid a rebuild, and I was healthy politically. However, the election of 2000 did not turn out to be the cakewalk 1996 had been. The challenges came from the political right—within my own party. Plus, third-term elections will always be more difficult than second-term reelections.

Shortly before the legislative session of 2000 was to begin, I became aware that Republican legislators were actively exploring a campaign to nominate Speaker of the House Marty Stephens in a primary challenge. They had begun to sense some discontent in certain parts of my political base— primarily among the party hobbyist crowd and in

certain parts of rural Utah. Although I was running very high approval ratings statewide among the general population, these two groups had some Leavitt fatigue and also felt a bit ignored. There wasn’t fire, but clearly there was smoke, and legislators smelled it.

I had taken positions on two issues that troubled these groups. One was my stance that a concealed weapon permit should not provide carte blanche to carry a concealed gun into a church or school. Second Amendment groups loudly and vociferously took issue with that position, although the National Rifle Association continued to support me.

The second issue related to my efforts to settle wilderness and road disputes in rural Utah with the federal government. I held the view then and still today that it is not in Utah’s interest to continue pretending that federal laws do not exist. I had been trying to resolve some of the long-standing disputes as opposed to litigating or militating against the federal government. They viewed that as capitulation on my part.

The New York Times previewed the gun contentiousness in a March 12, 2000, story by Michael Janofsky about three western states where gun initiatives were in the forefront—Utah, Colorado, and Oregon.

“In Utah, an effort to ban guns from schools and churches was a centerpiece of Governor Leavitt’s legislative agenda this year. After it failed, a coalition of groups, led by the Utah Parent-Teachers Association, organized to collect signatures to place an initiative on the ballot in November.”

The New York Times noted the difficulty in collecting signatures from ten percent of the registered votes in twenty of Utah’s twenty-nine counties, the minimum needed to get the

initiative on the ballot. The article added: “Governor Leavitt, who is not expected to encounter any problems winning election to a third term this year, is taking no chances, nonetheless, letting others take the lead in campaigning for the initiative.”3

In the end, the gun ballot initiative effort sputtered, and the measure never made it onto the 2000 election ballot. But that issue, along with the public lands issues, foreshadowed a larger divide that I had not seen coming.

The truth of the matter is, I had simply not spent enough time in rural Utah. It was an important part of my political base, and for the first six years I spent a lot of time—more than any other governor in history—in rural Utah. The two years before the 2000 election, however, had taken considerable amounts of my time outside the state on National Governors Association business and other matters. I had simply lost touch with rural Utah.

My relationships with the legislature had begun to chill a bit, too. I’m not sure my perspective is still very good on why, but over time people wear on each other. I had become quite skilled at getting what I needed from the legislature, often taking my cause to the people.

Marty Stephens had become Speaker of the House after an earlier unsuccessful attempt. Though we were friends, he had lost the previous speaker’s election because some said he was “too close to the governor.” That was a factor in him potentially mounting a primary challenge for governor. At the very least, saying he was going to run against me clearly signaled that his purported closeness was not true.

There were people who wanted to move into legislative leadership, and if Marty stayed another term, it blocked more opportunities for them. Therefore, getting Marty to run for governor cleared a path for others to run for leadership. The rural disconnect that arose late in my second term also played out prominently within the legislature as well.

I was in Palm Springs, California, at an RGA event when the news broke that the Stephens forces were seriously considering a challenge. It caught me somewhat by surprise. I decided to call Marty directly to confirm it. We had a civil but tense conversation, and he said it was true.

This presented a very complicated situation. I could imagine going through the entire legislative session with this dynamic hovering over everything. I was also disappointed in people whom I considered friends, who appeared to be either involved or, at minimum, not standing up for me.

I knew no House members in their right mind would buck legislative leadership and support the governor. It would be awkward and viewed as disloyal. However, I could not show any weakness or it would trigger all kinds of difficult consequences.

We began working to solidify support from the business community, donors, and state senators who we knew would be offended by the House making a move on a Republican governor. The newspapers became full of intrigue and drama very quickly.

Marty ultimately decided not to run. I think three things contributed to his decision. First, he met with a group of donors led by my friend Dell Loy Hansen, who, in very direct terms, told Marty they would not support him, and that they were doubling down on their support of me. They told him it was disloyal and hurtful to the party, and that he should not get in. Second, the strategy of those who were supporting Marty was to take me out at the convention. They knew that if it got to a vote of the people, they would lose and not only would Marty not be governor but he wouldn’t be Speaker any longer. Finally, Marty and I have been friends for a long time, and I think in the end, it just felt too disloyal to him.

Despite Marty’s withdrawal, it signaled that we had entered a period of heightened tension with the legislature. The day after Marty’s withdrawal, it was the Legislature's Executive Appropriations Meeting, and he and three other Republican legislative leaders, Kevin Garn, Jeff Alexander, and David Ure grilled my budget director, Lynne Ward, for three hours over a roads

3. Michael Janofsky, “Citizen’s Groups Pushing Gun Initiatives in the West,” The New York Times, 12 March 2000. https://www.nytimes. com/2000/03/12/us/citizens-groups-pushing-gun-initiatives-in-the-west.html

proposal and tobacco settlement recommendations. It was obvious they wanted it to be clear that the legislative branch would be challenging the executive branch.

In reality, checks and balances in government require tension. I did not mind the tension because I felt it made us more productive. In fact, many legislators told me in subsequent years that our office was more proactive than other administrations. We made proposals, had opinions, and challenged the legislature for influence.

“ Do I have your vote?”

In order to give the legislators a comfortable way to back down, and also solve some of the problems that were driving their discontent, I agreed to bring a former speaker of the House, Glen Brown, into my office to be an interface with rural legislators on land issues.

I welcomed a chance to work with Glen; he had been a great supporter of mine. He was disappointed in not being selected as head of the Department of Agriculture earlier in my administration, but we had worked through that. Glen pitched in and made a big difference in our office, mending our relationships with the legislature.

What would have happened if Marty had run?

As it turns out, the vulnerabilities the legislators sensed in important areas of my base actually existed. Those became manifest in the state convention just a few months later, when a virtual unknown received 43 percent of the delegate vote, pushing me into a primary election. It’s possible then, I suppose, that the legislators’ plan could have worked. Not many years later it happened to Senator Bob Bennett. Delegates, for reasons not substantially different, ousted him at convention, and his seat ultimately was won by Senator Mike Lee. While Bennett had approval ratings in the general public and among Republicans significantly below mine at the time, it really didn't matter. Even the public doesn’t matter at that point in the process— only Republican delegates matter. I knew I would have a major advantage in a primary. But I still

consider the experience to be one of the more important political lessons of my life, and I was about to learn another one.

Convention 2000

I have always wondered why more people don’t run for governor or the U.S. Senate. For the cost of a filing fee—and that can be waived if you plead poverty—a person gets a license to speak at county conventions, be featured on television, and more. To a person with the right personality, it can be good, cheap fun.

In each election I’ve been involved with, there are people who file without a prayer’s chance of winning. However, that’s the way a democracy works. Some of them are characters, others have touching human stories. In 2000, there was a candidate named Tim Lawson, who would drag a ball and chain up to the stage with him and drop it on the floor to great effect at the beginning of his speech.

The Salt Lake Tribune had a funny column about one of Lawson’s stump-speech gimmicks. Lawson tried to work up the GOP crowd, claiming the Leavitt administration had increased the size of government, and then shouted, “Are we all Republicans?”

The crowd responded, “Yes!”

“Are we for smaller government?” Lawson asked.

“Yes!” yelled the crowd.

“Do we want lower taxes?”

“Yes!”

“Do I have your vote?” The crowd bellowed back, “No!”

Another candidate whom I admired was Dub Richards. He also ran in 1992. Dub had been injured in an accident and was paraplegic. His political ideas were not well formed, nor were they well delivered. He sounded almost delusional sometimes, but he ran—and worked hard at it. He would haul a few signs around in his specially-equipped van. He had no staff, volunteers, or even family that traveled with him most of the time. It was a very

1 Campaigning in Logan

2 Mike and Senator Bob Bennett

3 Mike at Mr. Mac getting fitted for a new suit for Statehood Day

4 Placement of the Millennial Time Capsule, Utah State Capitol, January 4, 2001

5 Mike at the 2000 announcement of his victory

hard thing he was doing. It seemed evident to me that this was more about proving something to himself than anything else.

One night on the county convention circuit, we passed Dub changing a tire on the side of the road. That is nearly impossible from a wheelchair. We stopped, as did other candidates and staff, to help. There was a general appreciation for the fortitude he had.

So, when a handful of minor candidates filed in 2000, I thought nothing of it. One of them, Glen Davis, never showed up at any of the county conventions. He was simply absent from the race. I presumed he had changed his mind after having filed. However, on the morning of the state convention, he showed up, ready to participate. Literally no one who had been running that year had ever met him. Nor had any Republican Party official.

Glen’s family owned a novelties business called Loftus Novelties. I knew the store well. As a kid, it was a favorite place to visit on Main Street in Salt Lake City whenever I accompanied my dad during his legislative sessions. Over the years, Loftus Novelties had grown to a much more substantial business and the Davis family was well respected in their neighborhood and community. Glen is a smart and able man. He is also a man with strong opinions and the ability to express them.

He entered a state convention that was clearly in an angry mood. Because of inadequate security and poor management, several dozen hardline, non-delegate gun advocates had seated themselves in the front section of the convention hall—the E Center in West Valley City, later renamed and known today as the Maverik Center. It is impossible to know how many were there, but the Deseret News reported that some of those jeering at me and others may not have been delegates. “GOP leaders certified 3,500 delegates, but the hall had more than 5,000 in it when candidates gave their short speeches,” the newspaper reported.4

The anger felt in rural Utah about the federal government over land and road issues was palpable that election year, and I had become an accessible symbol of their discontent, as had Senator Orrin Hatch, also running for reelection that year.

At a Republican Convention, each candidate is allocated a specific amount of time. During that period, a nominating speech and a seconding speech need to be made. Following those presentations, the candidate speaks for the balance of the time. The candidate order is typically drawn from a hat or some other random process.

I was rehearsing my speech in a room offstage. My campaign manager, Amy Hansen, came to the room to report two things. First, that the convention was an ugly crowd—Orrin Hatch had been booed. It was shocking, she said. The second report was that Glen Davis, the mystery candidate, had given a fiery speech that was enthusiastically received by the convention. Lots of red-meat rhetoric. Neither was particularly good news.

When my turn to speak came, Jackie accompanied me. Normally, when a sitting governor with high popularity addresses his own party, one can expect a warm reception. This was not a normal day.

As I began to speak, it was clear there were two different crowds. Immediately in front of me was a large group of loud, disruptive men who were clearly there to demonstrate, mostly about guns and public lands. The second crowd was the normal convention group.

As they had with Senator Hatch, the group right in front of me began to boo, trying to disrupt me. Offended by this behavior, the rest of the crowd responded by trying to cheer me. There were people arguing in the crowd, yelling at each other to shut up. It was a horrible atmosphere. I remember very little about the speech except that I finished it and got off the stage. I retired to a nearby room to wait for the voting to occur.

The convention had adopted a multi-ballot process where the lowest candidate would be eliminated and delegates would vote again. Those who

4. Bob Bernick Jr., and Edward Carter, “Leavitt, Cook face primaries; Both Are Booed and Jeered at Republican State Convention,” Deseret News, 7 May 2000. https://www.deseret.com/2000/5/7/19505290/leavitt-cook-face-primaries-br-both-are-booed-and-jeered-at-republicanstate convention

had voted for the eliminated candidate would then reallocate themselves to the remaining candidates. This also meant that the time dragged on. This time, however, there was no one to sit in front of the door to keep people from leaving. Many people cast their ballot the first time and left. The disaffected stayed.

“ Governor, we have a problem.”

The voting took a couple of hours. Finally, Amy Hansen returned. Her first words were, “Governor, we have a problem.” She went on to detail how Glen Davis had won 43 percent of the vote—which meant that I would be facing Davis in a primary election. Orrin Hatch had escaped the same fate by a handful of votes.

Situations involving unexpected news or disappointment tend to settle on me over time. I was concerned but mostly a bit angry. I knew I needed to face the media and manage the fallout as best as possible. I congratulated Davis, and said, “This

is the way the process works. If one wants to be governor,” I said, “there are no shortcuts.” For the election, I would conduct a rigorous campaign, and I expected to win.

However, the next few days were rugged ones for me. I was angry, embarrassed, and hurt. It had come as a surprise, though it probably shouldn’t have. The Marty Stephens episode should have been a warning, and there were other indications I should have read differently. No matter, it hurt. Within a few days, the bruises began to heal, and I began to settle into the task at hand.

In its coverage of the convention, the Deseret News provided a bit of color commentary. “Delegates cheered when one county GOP chairman, during their ‘reports from their counties,’ warned the governor to stop ‘giving away’ land to the federal government. Leavitt has been working on wilderness and school trust land swaps with the Clinton administration.”

And this: “Nearly every candidate promised to defend gun rights—and all were cheered loudly. Leavitt has been criticized from his party’s right

Mike’s swearing in as governor, done by Justice Michael D. Zimmerman, 2000

wing for advocating that all weapons, including legally permitted concealed weapons, be banned from public schools and churches.”5

I concluded first of all that I needed to understand what had happened and why. It was evident that I had political trouble in rural Utah and needed to get to the bottom of it. I asked my team to organize a series of meetings for me in a dozen rural communities. I wanted to meet with the people in those towns who had been my supporters and organizers. The meetings were all held in airport hangars. A group of chairs would be put in a circle. I would land at the airport and sit with my friends and listen. I would start the conversation by saying, “I need to understand what happened at the state convention, help me understand it, and tell me what I need to do to fix it.”

I learned three important things on that tour. First, that I still had friends in rural Utah. Second, they were sending me a message—they still wanted me to be governor, but they felt I had forgotten them. Third, the gun issue wasn’t about guns. It was about their frustration with government.

That third lesson was an important one for me. It crystallized during a meeting in the hangar at the Duchesne Municipal Airport. We took a break to snack on orange juice and donuts when one of the participants casually said to me, “Governor, you really need to understand this gun thing. I don’t think a person should take a gun into my house or have one at church.” The man then proceeded to explain to me how the gun issue was more about his truck.

His story was compelling. One day, he set about hauling a backhoe to a neighboring county to dig a trench. At a highway checking station he was told his truck was now a commercial vehicle and that he needed a commercial license. He got the license, which required him to submit fuel tax records. Amid the process of submitting fuel tax records, the U.S. Transportation Department notified him of a requirement to be drug tested.

“Governor,” he said, “I just wanted to dig a trench for a friend in Vernal. If they can do that to my truck, imagine what the government could do with my gun.” I realized then what the real issue was. I thought people were responding to a question about guns. People didn’t see the gun problem. What they saw—the true underlying problem— was government’s outsized impact on their lives. I immediately changed tactics when it came to gun issues. I never responded to a question related to guns without talking first about the threat of oppressive government. Once people knew I understood their concern about government, they were willing to listen to my logic on the gun issue.

I spent the next four months and nearly $600,000 in campaign funds repairing my relationship problems with my base. I traveled rural Utah extensively. I also instigated litigation against the federal government on a matter they had ignored, and I worked with core Republican leaders.

“ Governor, you really need to understand this gun thing.”

Once the campaign was waged among the larger primary universe of voters, Glen Davis was at a disadvantage and I won handily. However, I had clearly suffered political erosion over the previous four years. In 1996, I won every county in a general election. In the primary election of 2000, I lost in some small Southern Utah counties that were symbolically important to me—Kane and Garfield Counties. In the general election, things normalized. My political base had sent me a message, and it was received. All in all, it was a very important lesson.

Incidentally, Glen Davis surfaced one more time before the general election. A few days after my primary victory, we made an appointment for Davis to meet with me and Rich McKeown at the Governor’s Mansion. Davis walked in with his

5. Bob Bernick Jr., and Edward Carter, “Leavitt, Cook face primaries; Both Are Booed and Jeered at Republican State Convention.”

campaign running mate, Greg Hawkins. There was a bit of tension, but we exchanged pleasantries. Glen started defining the election the way he saw it and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. I instantly surmised it was a list of conditions or some such thing, and I pulled him up short.

“Glen, if that’s a list of things that you want, you can just put it back in your pocket,” I said. “The problem here is you think this is about you. You think the race was about you. It wasn’t. It was about me. They were mad at me and I understand that. But I won the primary, and I’ll win the general.”

congressional seat was open that year. Howard Nielson, a four-term member of Congress, had retired in 1990. The vacancy attracted a dozen candidates in a very competitive race. Ultimately, Karl Snow, a respected BYU professor and former state senator, won a contentious primary. It was presumed that as the Republican, Snow would inevitably go on to win. Bill Orton, a single man in his mid-thirties, was the only serious Democrat that filed.

“ I continued to hammer home the themes that had carried my administration from the beginning: jobs, education, and quality of life.”

I further told him that if this was a negotiation over his endorsement, I didn’t think much came with his endorsement. He and Hawkins left and Glen later endorsed my general election opponent, Bill Orton.

General Election 2000

I had an interesting history with Bill Orton, the former congressman who became my Democratic opponent in the 2000 general election. He had served as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the same Oregon mission as me, but our paths had crossed only a short time.

Bill was an attorney and a highly independent and intelligent guy. Frankly, he was probably the best possible candidate the Democrats could have fielded. He had represented the Provo area and rural Utah in Congress for several terms—very notable for a Democrat. Moreover, he continued to be reelected in one of the most staunchly Republican congressional districts in America.

His initial win came after a strange miscalculation by the favored Republican candidate. The

In the closing weeks of the campaign, an ad was placed in the Provo Daily Herald titled “Family Values.” There was minimal text; just a picture of Karl Snow’s large family—a Christmas photo showing several adult children, their spouses and a dozen or so grandchildren—with the headline: “Karl Snow and his family.” Next to the photo was a picture of Bill Orton, alone, with the words, “Bill Orton and his family.” The ad ignited a firestorm of anger within the community, which cascaded over the final week of the campaign, resulting in an amazing defeat of Snow in the most Republican district in America. Bill Orton won by 22 percent. It was nearly unthinkable in the 3rd district of Utah.

To survive politically, Congressman Orton had to cut a centrist path ideologically and regularly buck the Democratic establishment. People in Utah liked Bill’s somewhat maverick reputation.

Orton continued to be reelected until 1996, when President Clinton, in a surprise announcement, declared a 1.7 million-acre swath of southern Utah as a national monument. The people of Utah, and particularly Bill’s district, were outraged. Though Bill quickly protested the monument and did everything he could to distance himself from the controversy, he was toast. People still liked Bill personally, but they wanted some way to retaliate. Un-electing a Democratic congressman seemed like the only option available. Bill lost the 1996 race to Chris Cannon. However, people in rural Utah liked Bill, and given that they were a little bit grumpy about my efforts to settle some of our disputes with the federal government, having him as an opponent had the prospect of being problematic.

Bill Orton was a tough opponent—better than any I had faced up to that point. He was an effective debater, came across well and pulled no punches. He had married several years earlier—to a woman also named Jackie—and they had two children.

While not well resourced, Orton attacked continuously on issues where I would be naturally vulnerable. He went after the Olympic scandal, trying to link me to that. He resurrected a controversy over a whirling disease episode at our family’s fish farm, sending a person wearing a fish costume to follow me around at various campaign events. Their campaign called the character “Whirlie.” I thought it was a clever tactic. For the most part, we ignored Orton’s attacks. He didn’t have enough money to hurt me very much, so we monitored it closely and responded quickly when necessary.

I continued to hammer home the themes that had carried my administration from the beginning: jobs, education, and quality of life. Of course, I now had a record to point to and defend.

At one point my support among men had begun to fade. My two primary consultants, Eddie Mahe Jr. and Chuck Sellier, gleaned from polling that there was a need to give male voters a proactive reason to vote for me—an energizing or galvanizing issue. We focused on my opposition to the Goshute Tribe’s proposal to store high-level nuclear waste on their reservation that was close to the Salt Lake metropolitan area. We recorded a series of rather hard-hitting radio ads on the issue. Those were effective, and in short order my support ticked up among men. In the end, I was reelected comfortably, winning with 55.77 percent of the vote to Orton’s 42.27 percent.

Sadly, Bill Orton was killed in an ATV accident at Little Sahara Sand Dunes in 2009. Election periods are inherently adversarial, but Bill and I seemed to never take our political contest personally. While we didn’t spend time together before or after the election, I felt that we had a respectful friendship.

The 2000 Presidential Election

The year 2000 was also a presidential election year. I was an early supporter of Governor George W. Bush, the GOP candidate that year. In fact, I

was with him in Israel during a time when he was deliberating whether to run for the presidency. In the fall of 1999, most of the Republican governors endorsed Bush, giving him an early boost.

My friend Orrin Hatch, who had always felt he was somewhat destined to run for president, concluded he, too, would enter the race. That obviously presented me with a problem. I was running for reelection. One of the issues was that I was spending too much time on national issues. It was evident that Orrin didn’t have a chance from the beginning, but it would be insulting if the governor of his state, his former campaign manager, didn’t support him. I talked to Bush and his team, told him that I was not withdrawing my endorsement, but that I would need to speak encouragingly of Orrin. They understood. I basically told the media that I supported both of them, and if it came down to a contest between the two of them, I’d have to decide then. We all knew it wouldn’t. Early in the primaries, Orrin dropped out.

I agreed to chair the Bush reelection in Utah. My deputy chief of staff, Vicki Varela, became the western states chair for the campaign. However, our first priority was my reelection.

All but assured of Utah’s support, Bush only came to the state a couple of times, once to raise money, another time for an airport rally. It was fun to see a friend rise in national politics that way, and to ponder the thought that my buddy George W. could very well become president of the United States.

The presidential election came down to a historically close race ultimately settled by the Supreme Court in a battle over who won Florida. It was a historic moment.

Shortly after the Supreme Court issued rulings that effectively declared George W. Bush the forty-third president of the United States. I flew to West Texas to visit the president-elect at his ranch, along with a number of other Republican governors. It is a working ranch about an hour outside Waco. George wanted to show me the ranch, so we drove the entire property in his pickup truck. His truck was light violet in color, and I poked fun at it,

asking, “Who decided on the color of this truck?”

“Mikey,” he replied, “It takes a real man to drive a purple truck.” Enough said. As we drove, George pointed out trails he had been clearing so that he could ride his mountain bike and run.

We went by the construction site of a ranch house George and Laura were building. They wanted it to be an environmental showplace. Water was drawn from collection cisterns; the cooling system was supplemented by natural design features so that breezes would cool the entire home; a private fish pond was being built next to the house. George seemed genuinely pleased to be showing it. The Secret Service had already begun construction on facilities they would need, including a helicopter pad.

That year, I was able to watch the election of a president in unique ways. On our trip to Israel, I saw him being recognized for the first time as a potential world leader. We spent time talking about the decision he faced. I witnessed the campaign, visited him at the ranch as he prepared to take office, and then to top it off, I participated in the electoral college.

During the same Republican convention where I was booed and pushed into a primary, I was elected to represent the state as an elector. This was a special year to do so, being one of the rare times in U.S. history that the ultimate victor—Bush— was elected despite getting fewer popular votes than his opponent, Al Gore. The entire nation was schooled on the electoral-college process outlined in the Constitution as we waited for the Supreme Court to rule on the election.

On the day designated for the electoral votes to be cast, Utah’s four electors gathered in the Governor’s Board Room. It was like casting a mail-in ballot today. The ballots had been printed and specially sent to the Lieutenant Governor’s Office. We ceremoniously marked our ballot, placed it in the special container provided and sent our votes to Washington.

That year I also attended the inaugural ceremony, sitting just behind the official party. All the governors were invited to sit together. It was bitter cold, but a wonderful celebration.

Church and State 16

The struggle for Utah to be admitted to the Union was a long and arduous one, finally culminating in statehood in 1896. The primary barrier was widespread misperceptions about “the Mormons,” who had settled Utah fifty years earlier. Influential members of Congress believed that members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the proper name of the “Mormon” church) were not loyal to the United States. Specific language had to be included in the Utah Constitution giving assurances of a separation between the Church of Jesus Christ and the new state.

Members of Congress were not the only ones skeptical of this self-described “peculiar people.” In the heart of Salt Lake City, people who were not members of the Church formed The Salt Lake Tribune, a newspaper, to act as a watchdog of Church activities and ensure that its influence was not exercised improperly. Significant misconceptionhas developed over time about the level of influence the Church attempts to exert in state government.

Once, during my time as governor, I invited Elder Dallin H. Oaks, a member of the Quorum of Twelve, to go for a walk one morning before dawn.1 He lived on Yale Avenue in Salt Lake City, just two blocks from our family home. Our families were assigned to the same ward congregation. In fact, I was his daughter’s

Sunday School teacher. The invitation to go on a walk, however, had nothing do with either of our service. It was just an opportunity to deepen my friendship with a neighbor.

“ People think the Church tries to influence governments. The truth is, we spend 95 percent of our time trying to keep the Church out of political involvement.”

That morning we laughed about how conspiratorial it would seem if a cynic saw the two of us wandering through the tree-lined streets of our neighborhood under the cover of darkness. At the time, Elder Oaks chaired the Public Affairs Committee, the forerunner to the Communication Committee where I now serve. He made the comment, “People think the Church tries to influence governments. The truth is, we spend 95 percent of our time trying to keep the Church out of political involvement.” My own experience as a Public Affairs Committee member squares with that assessment.

Respect for the Government; Respect for the Church

Most governors of Utah have been members of the Church, but not all of those former governors have been active, church-attending adherents. I was both a member and adherent. Frankly, I felt a bit sensitive to that fact. I didn’t want to be perceived as a practicing member just doing the Church’s work. On the other hand, I knew members of the Church were a large constituent organization and deserved respect.

Senior leaders of the church were invited to the inauguration, along with the leaders of other faiths in Utah. President Ezra Taft Benson was not well in January 1993, but his counselors, led by

Gordon B. Hinckley, attended. We met briefly before the inauguration, and President Hinckley made the symbolic importance of their visit clear. He said, “We attend because we want it known that we are good citizens.” I interpreted it as a gesture of respect for the office.

During the first few months, two situations helped me understand that good communication needed to go both ways. The Church had an expectation that the governor would demonstrate a similar respect for the Church as they had shown to the governor.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints holds semiannual general conferences in Salt Lake City. I had not paid much attention to the fact that government leaders from most levels of government, whether members or not, attended the first session on Saturday morning. In fact, the governor, by tradition, sat on the front row of the historic Tabernacle where the meetings were held. At the point in the gathering when the officiating member of church leadership acknowledges the presence of federal, state, and local government officials, the television camera would flash on the governor and First Lady.

Not knowing the ritual, I had planned to spend Saturday and Sunday with my family, watching conference sessions on television. Midweek my office got a call, indicating that they had not received confirmation that Jackie and I would be there. Upon hearing that we didn’t plan to attend, they scrambled and discreetly called the chief of staff to explain the significance of the appearance.

From that conference forward, Jackie and I always attended the Saturday morning session, waiting for the words: “We are joined by government leaders.”

1. The highest governing body of the Church is the First Presidency, organized with a president (also called a prophet) and two counselors. The members of the First Presidency are given the title of “president” (e.g., President Russell M. Nelson). The second highest presiding body is the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles; they are referred to with the title of elder. (Note, however, that the title of “elder” or “president” does not always indicate that the man is part of the Quorum of the Twelve or First Presidency; there are many other positions in the church where the man is referred with the title of elder or president.) Though these two groups are the highest leadership positions in the Church, there are other important leadership positions and groups as well; for more information, see https://newsroom.churchofjesuschrist.org/leadership-and-organization/

B.

President

The second incident occurred a few months after the conference episode. A friend of mine, who was obviously carrying a message from the Church, came by to say that they would certainly enjoy a visit by Jackie and me. Appropriate arrangements were made, and we visited the counselors of the First Presidency, Gordon B. Hinckley and James E. Faust. It was a delightful experience.

“ You run the state and we’ll run the Church.”

The discussion started out with a conversation about our family and the adjustment to life in the Governor’s Mansion and other changes in lifestyle. Then President Hinckley said, “Governor, we appreciate you coming to visit us. Often there is speculation about the relationship between the Church and state government. I have a proposal.”

I was all ears.

President Hinckley continued, “You run the state and we’ll run the Church.”

We both smiled at the humor of his expression, but it clearly defined our future interactions. Very rarely did I hear from the Church. Our most frequent interactions occurred when I called them to ask for their involvement.

Actually, I only remember one time when President Hinckley called me directly. It occurred during my first legislative session as governor and involved my veto of a tax increase for public education and the subsequent pressure that it created to find additional school revenues elsewhere. I had proposed a complete review of all tax exemptions granted by the state to offset the revenues the tax increase would have generated. One of the most sensitive tax exemptions was a sales tax exemption on purchases by the Church; another was the deductibility of tithes paid to the Church.

President Hinckley called to say, “Governor, as you consider the tax exemptions the state provides various businesses, I’d like you to consider the amount of social services and welfare we provide to citizens of this state, and ask yourselves, ‘If we had to pay it, would it be done as skillfully or as inexpensively to the state?’ If the answer is no, we’re hoping you will not propose its discontinuation.”

It was a compelling argument. Frankly, it also was a valuable one to me because I had not naturally thought about the exemptions in that light. The discussion made me realize that the granting of an exemption should be viewed as an investment on behalf of the state. We are, in essence, giving an organization permission not to pay taxes that everybody else pays. It should be done on the basis that the entity being exempted can do more good with the money than the state can.

Church Involvement

President Faust made clear that there were three topics on which they would continually have interest. He called them “the three sisters of sin.” He went on to define them as gambling, prostitution, and liquor.

True to their commitment, the Church did routinely pay close attention to those subjects. The one where they were most active was liquor.

Gordon

Hinckley,

of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Particularly, they wanted to provide feedback on who the liquor commissioners would be.

In 1994, I had a vacancy coming up on the State Alcoholic Beverage Control Commission. This is the body that oversees the sale, regulation, and enforcement of liquor in Utah. Pressure was building because all five commissioners were active members of the Church. Nobody on the commission used alcohol. It seemed quite obvious that nobody was well served by that alignment. A local radio personality, Tom Barberi, went on a public-relations crusade to have himself appointed. I actually don’t think he wanted the job and likely would have hated doing it, but he had a big megaphone and was using it.

I had Charlie Johnson, my chief of staff at the time, contact Bill Evans, the Church’s lobbyist, and explain to him our desire to find a drinker who would be responsible in their actions but give both

the Governor’s Office and the Church some cover on this one. It was my first time through this drill, and I knew people in Utah saw this as a symbol of what kind of governor I was going to be.

We assembled a list of names we could be comfortable with. When I appointed a drinker to the Liquor Commission, Vicki McCall, it was treated by several news organizations like the Berlin Wall coming down. By working with the Church in advance, they came to feel good about it.

A similar situation occurred on the Board of Regents, the governing body of state-run colleges and universities. For decades, a general authority of the church had served on the Board of Regents.2 It became known as the “Church’s seat.”

Having served on the Board of Regents with Elder Robert Hales, I understood the high value these people brought. Before Elder Robert D. Hales had served, people like Elder Neal A. Maxwell and

Dedication ceremony at This is the Place State Park. Mike Leavitt, Church Security, and Gordon B. Hinckley

2. “General Authority” is a term for senior leaders of the Church, such as members of the Quorum of the Seventy and Quorum of the Twelve. See Church Newsroom, “General Authority,”

1 From left: President James E. Faust, Dixie Leavitt, Anne Leavitt, Taylor, Jackie, Mike, President Gordon B. Hinckley, President Thomas S. Monson

2 June 20, 1998—Assembly Hall, Temple Square—Elder David B. Haight and Governor Leavitt talk before the program. Haight’s grandmother was a Leavitt. Photo by Kristan Jacobsen

3 President Gordon B. Hinckley and Mike

4 Mike and President James E. Faust.

5 Elder Thomas S. Monson, Mike and Jackie.

Elder Marvin J. Ashton had served. However, the Church, in an effort to cut down outside time commitments of members of the Twelve Apostles, indicated they would prefer a member of the Quorum of the Seventy be appointed.3

I felt that if we broke the tradition of having a member of the Quorum of Twelve serving in that role but then appointed a less prominent member of church leadership, it really would confirm the existence of a sweetheart relationship. It seemed like a bad idea for the Church as well as the governor.

Ultimately, I concluded to simply discontinue the pattern. I’m not sure we ever got to the point of gaining the Church’s “agreement.” However, that was the point. There should be no agreement.

Presidents of the Church

During my time as governor, there were three men who served as president of the Church of Jesus Christ as Latter-day Saints. Ezra Taft Benson was the first, though for health reasons he was not able to conduct business outside the formal councils of the Church. President Gordon B. Hinckley and President Thomas S. Monson were his counselors. A third counselor, President James E. Faust, was named at that time because of the shorthandedness that President Benson’s health created. I dealt mostly with President Hinckley and President Faust. President Benson passed away in May 1994. I attended his funeral on behalf of the state.

President Benson was followed by President Howard W. Hunter. I interacted several times at public events with President Hunter but recall few, if any, beyond those. He did not serve long, passing away in November 1995, just eighteen months after assuming the presidency. Again, I attended his funeral, representing the state.

Following President Hunter’s passing, President Gordon B. Hinckley, as the senior member of the Quorum of Twelve, was sustained as president of the Church. He retained President Thomas S. Monson as a counselor, as well as President Faust.

I had a very good working relationship with these men. President Faust, with whom I would interact most frequently, used a nickname for me, “Prince Michael.” He had served in the legislature with my dad, so I started from a good place with him. He was always looking after me a bit. Once he called to ask if Jackie and I would like a blessing.4 It was a well-timed lift.

President Hinckley was a giant of a man in my estimation. He had a sense of humor that was constantly evident and a gentleness and ease that seemed to transcend judgments about people. He dealt with matters in a very common-sense way.

Once he became president of the Church, he opened himself to the media much more than his predecessors. He was brilliant at it. He did a full one-hour interview in 1996 with Mike Wallace, the hard-hitting investigative reporter from the news program 60 Minutes. 5 It was a high-stakes interview for the Church, and President Hinckley responded with such ease to all the controversial subjects. One cannot watch that interview without marveling at his perspective.

He also had a memorable interview two years later with Larry King on CNN. A media frenzy had just occurred over remarks I made about prosecuting polygamy cases. King discussed the issue with Hinckley for a while and then asked about me.

“Tell us your thoughts about this governor,” King pressed.

The

4. “A priesthood blessing is given by a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, by the laying on of hands and by inspiration, to one who is sick or otherwise in need of special counsel, comfort or healing.” Church of Jesus Christ, “Priesthood Blessing,” Gospel Topics, https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/manual/gospel-topics/priesthood-blessing?lang=eng

5. “An Interview With Gordon Hinckley: A Look Back at Mike Wallace’s 1996 Interview with the President of the Mormon Church,” 60 Minutes, CBS News, January 31, 2008. https://www.cbsnews.com/news/an-interview-with-gordon-hinckley/ See also: Gordon B. Hinckley, “This Thing Was Not Done in a Corner,” October 1996 General Conference. https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/1996/10/thisthing-was-not-done-in-a-corner?lang=eng

3.

Quorum of the Seventy is another body of leadership within the Church. A General Authority Seventy, as they are individually called, assists First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in assignments around the world.

President Hinckley did not miss a beat. “Well, the governor is a native of Utah, young man, part of the economy in the insurance business and other things, grew up there. I know his father and mother well. Know him well. I regard him as a good man doing a good job.”

The polygamy brouhaha occurred in late July of 1998. I had been at the ranch with the family for an extended time. Long enough that my head wasn’t in the game fully. My first day back, I had the Governor’s monthly news conference on my schedule. Generally, we would spend some time reviewing the issues I was most likely to be asked about. We did so this time, but missed an important one.

Polygamy had been making headlines due to the start of a trial in Brigham City for John Daniel Kingston, a polygamous man who had severely beaten his daughter over her refusal to marry an uncle.

Halfway through the news conference, a reporter asked why polygamy itself isn’t prosecuted in Utah.

I hadn’t really thought about it, and then made a big mistake. I began to speculate, essentially thinking out loud in front of a bunch of reporters on a very sensitive subject.

I responded that I didn’t really know why. Good answer up to that point. If I would have stopped there, no problem. However, I went on.

“Maybe it is because some prosecutors worry that if it went to court, the First Amendment issue might get in the way,” I said, in reference to the religious freedom and expression protections of the amendment.

I further said that I had worked around polygamous people and knew them to be hardworking people.

As we walked out of the session, Vicki Varela, my communications deputy, said, “I think we may have some cleanup to do on the polygamy question.”

I thought the way I had spoken about it was fairly clear that I didn’t know and was speculating.

Within two hours, I could tell we had a major problem on our hands. The big lead story coming out of the news conference was, “Governor Says Polygamy Protected Under the First Amendment.”

There was no getting it back. Within twenty-four hours it had become a national story. By seventy-two hours the international media was all over it. It just kept escalating.

Within the first day of the controversy, I realized the only way to deal with this was to simply say I was wrong and hadn’t intended to communicate a belief that it was constitutionally protected religious freedom or was not prosecuted for that reason.

My practice after that was to always say the same words whenever I was asked about polygamy. My answer—no matter the question—was: “Polygamy is against the law, and it ought to be. Prosecution of polygamy is the responsibility of local law enforcement and prosecutors.” I learned a lot from the controversy—starting with don’t speculate on questions like polygamy.

President Hinckley’s interview with Larry King occurred about a month later, and he handled it with characteristic aplomb.

As mentioned earlier, I interacted with the Church fairly often, and mostly it was me approaching them to help with something. One such situation was when the state Division of Child Protective Services was struggling to find enough foster families.

I went to all the churches in Utah, including the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and said to the respective faith leaders, “We are simply not getting the numbers or the quality of foster parents we require. These children, and the people who are not caring for them, are part of your congregations. We have the legal authority to deal with these matters, but you have the moral authority. People will do hard things when asked by those to whom they contribute tithes and offerings. They will not respond to those who compel them to pay taxes.”

The Church of Jesus Christ Latter-day Saints responded in a very admirable way. They instructed bishops and other leaders to seek out volunteers

who met the state’s criteria. At the same time, we established the Utah Foster Care Foundation, an organization designed to be a bridge between the churches and the state.

Another remarkable example was the Church’s response to my call to give our state a house cleaning in advance of the upcoming Utah Centennial Celebration, marking one hundred years as a state. By proclamation as governor, I declared May 14, 1996, as “Take Pride in Utah Day,” asking churches, schools, civic organizations, businesses, neighborhoods, the Utah National Guard, and families to undertake a cleanup project.

The Church got behind the project, turning out groups in every part of Utah. I spent the day going from project to project, helping out and bringing good cheer. By the end of the day, I was simply overwhelmed by what I had observed. It was estimated

that over 300,000 people participated. If that were the number, I would estimate that the majority of them were mobilized through wards and stakes.6 Everywhere one went, there were people working. People walking along the highways with garbage bags, others cleaning a vacant lot or raking an elderly neighbor’s garden.

At the end of the day, I flew to Tropic, Utah, a tiny little town in Garfield County. Nearly one hundred volunteers from Provo had driven Friday night, slept in the church and set out in the morning to make the town, to use a phrase from the musical Annie, “shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.” By afternoon, a town that had looked a bit shabby was now fresh and neat.

I spoke to local people whose yards had been groomed by strangers. They were overwhelmed with delight. The effort brought the goodness out

Mike on horseback at the Utah Statehood Parade

6. In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, congregations are referred to as wards, and multiple wards constitute stakes.

“ I am, and always have been, a farfrom-perfect but dedicated, believing, and practicing member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. While I tried not to wear my religion on my sleeve in public, it is an inseparable part of who I am.”

in everyone—in one neighborhood, people who had not spoken to each other for years came out and socialized. It truly was one of the most remarkable days I spent as governor.

At the end of the day, I felt compelled to find President Hinckley by phone in order to thank him on behalf of the state. I told him no state in America had a resource like the Church.

Social Interactions

In 2000, after George W. Bush announced that he would seek the presidency, he came to Utah for a visit. Candidates often visit the First Presidency as a courtesy. I accompanied him.

At the end of the meeting, I said, “I know Governor Bush is a man of faith. Would it be appropriate to end our meeting with a prayer together?” President Hinckley agreed and called upon President Monson to offer the prayer. He asked for heaven’s blessings on Governor Bush. As we left Bush said, “Leavitt, thanks for doing that.”

Occasionally, there would be purely social occasions where Jackie and I interacted with church leaders. We invited the First Presidency and their wives to have dinner at the Governor’s Residence after the reconstruction had been completed. My parents joined us. It was a spectacular night. The mansion’s dining room has a long stately table. A large crystal chandelier lights the room, creating a festive glow as the light reflects from the cherry

mahogany used to cover the walls and cabinets. We used the silver from the USS Utah, a battleship that had been torpedoed and sunk in the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The silver had been given to the state by the U.S. Navy.

The conversation at dinner was stimulating but lighthearted. I remember asking President Hinckley if there was a singular population in the world that had been able to avoid an erosion of their values. He responded by mentioning his admiration for the devotion of the Amish people.

On occasion I would invite people I wanted to get to know better to have lunch with me at the mansion. Once, I invited Elder Henry B. Eyring, then a somewhat junior member of the Quorum of Twelve. I had known his father, Henry Eyring, a world-renowned scientist, from the time our family lived in the Monument Park II ward. I related stories his father had told me and experiences we had together working at the Bonneville Stake Farm. Also, I had mentored Elder Eyring’s son Henry Eyring, and we discussed that.

After lunch we talked about matters of spiritual importance to me. Elder Eyring offered encouragement. We prayed together. It was a nice lift to my spirits on a day when I needed it.

Values and Ideology

I am, and always have been, a far-from-perfect but dedicated, believing, and practicing member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. While I tried not to wear my religion on my sleeve in public, it is an inseparable part of who I am. Consequently, my religious beliefs have naturally been an influential part of the experiences and thoughts that have shaped my values and ideology.

For example, I believe work and self-reliance is a social principle of importance. Likewise, I believe in compassion. I know the teachings of my

religion have influenced those views. My belief in the rule of law must have been supplemented by the biblical clarity that mercy cannot rob justice. My foundational belief in freedom was influenced by my understanding of agency. The commitment I feel toward fiscal conservatism has been, in part, affected by my church’s teachings of thrift.

We all get our values and ideologies from someplace. I feel grateful to have been raised by parents in an environment where the Church, its leaders, and teachers have helped me gain the perspective upon which my views are based.

In 2007, after I was in Washington serving as Health and Human Services Secretary, a Utah news organization made a discovery of some transcripts held in the Utah State Archives regarding small scripture study sessions I organized as governor in 1996. We symbolically referred to those as, “Early Morning Seminary.” 7 The participants were close friends who had been part of a study group I belonged to prior to becoming governor. Because some participants were state employees and we were studying scriptures in the Governor’s Residence, it created a lot of stir.

Here’s the backstory. President Clinton had used an executive order in September 1996 to set aside millions of acres of land in Southern Utah as a national monument (See Chapter 8: Successes and Failures on Public Lands in part two of this volume.). It was big national news and my administration pushed back hard over the process involved. A summer festival in Chautauqua, New York, subsequently invited me to speak about public land issues to an audience of three thousand attendees.

It occurred to me that I had never actually attempted to articulate my environmental beliefs in a succinct way. This speech provided a high-profile forum for me to do it. The speech would be carried on several hundred radio stations and reproduced by the institute sponsoring the event.

I had six months to prepare. At various times in my life, I have selected a particular topic to study and used my scripture study as a part of that process. It was my pattern to break the subject into questions. I would read non-scriptural material, of course, but when I did read the scriptures, I would look for insights on the subject of my focus. I decided to follow this process with the idea of defining my own environmental philosophy.

I’ve also found that I learn best when I’m discussing the subject with a group of people with whom I feel safe in trying out new thoughts. In the midst of discussions like that, words or phrases get used that effectively frame or describe an idea, only to be lost or misremembered if not written down. So we decided to record and transcribe these sessions in order to capture any usable language without being slaves to note-taking.

Periodically I assembled a group of friends and a couple of staff members, and we would meet early in the morning to study public policy subjects, searching the scriptures for insights. The discussions often produced new thoughts, and I’m certain the language found its way into my thinking, speaking, and writing.

It is an interesting question as to whether the transcripts should ever have been included in the state’s archive. If asked, I would have insisted they not be. Oh, I understand the argument that we were sitting in a state-owned building at the time. Others might argue that there were employees of the state present. However, I would push back and say these were not public deliberations on a specific policy matter. It was a group of friends during nonwork hours, sitting in the residence, studying together in order to learn where their consciences lead them on various ideological subjects.

I was irritated when informed the Tribune intended to print my private thoughts on the front page and pressed—unsuccessfully—to have the transcripts removed from State Archives. Was I embarrassed that I studied the Book of Mormon for

7. In the Church, youth ages twelve to eighteen are given the option to attend seminary, a class where the youth study from the scriptures (Old Testament, New Testament, Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants). These classes, especially outside of Utah, are usually held early in the morning—therefore being called early morning seminary. Calling these group study sessions is in reference to the early morning seminary classes, though as is later explained, these study groups I held were not official early morning seminary classes and were not official government meetings either.

that purpose? No. However, I did feel like it was an invasion of my privacy and more importantly, an invasion of the privacy of my friends.

“Leavitt Looked to Faith for Philosophy of Government,” the initial Tribune story blared.8 Columnists and editorial writers followed up with headlines such as: “Leavitt’s papers show dual faces;” “Leavitt and LDS study go too far;” “Too early in the morning to mix church and state.”

The incident played out over several quite painful days. Since I was a cabinet officer at the time, the Washington Post and other news sources picked it up as well. It revealed a fascinating policy debate about the role of faith in the public square.

To most, it was not a surprise that a public official turned to the scriptures to gain insight. In fact, to many it was reassuring. However, the freedom-from-religion crowd pointed to this as a smoking gun that Mike Leavitt’s religion was being imposed on them. They reasoned that if I was populating my thoughts about policy from religious teachings, any decision I made imposed those religious values on the total population. The implication of such sentiment is that no person of faith is welcome in the public square.

We all learn values from one source or another. If society were to eliminate religious teaching as a source of wisdom and the inculcation of moral values, the results would be devastating. The longer I operate in this world, the more I understand that the opponents of religious freedom clearly and unapologetically hold precisely that purpose as their objective.

Public Official and Religious Man

While I have never felt sensitive about being a person of faith, there were moments when religious practices and my public duties felt slightly awkward. For example, I attended funerals occasionally in my capacity as governor. When asked to speak, particularly at funerals for members of the Church,

I felt a need to distinguish when I was speaking as a secular leader and when I was expressing my personal feelings.

One such occasion occurred in 1994 when a member of the Utah Highway Patrol, Doyle Thorne, was killed in a helicopter crash. Doyle, a Vietnam War pilot who joined the UHP and became pilot of the Department of Public Safety’s helicopter, often picked me up on the front lawn of the Capitol and flew me to various events. We enjoyed each other’s company and he would often let me fly the helicopter under his watchful eye.

Before his memorial began, the bishop of the ward asked that I make remarks at the end. The funeral was attended by law enforcement people from all over the country. I wanted to share my testimony of the plan of salvation and a belief of life after death, but felt that since I was there in an official capacity, and the funeral was being attended by media, I needed to be careful. Another unique dilemma was presented regarding how a person concludes a talk on such occasions. Normally at a meeting for the Church of Jesus Christ, the speaker would conclude remarks by declaring the expression as being done, “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen;” but this is not a typical ending for a government official. So the question was, should I end my remarks in this way as governor?

I came up with a solution: As I opened my remarks, I said, “I am here today representing the people of Utah as its elected representative.” I then spoke of the appreciation we all feel for the devotion of law enforcement and the dangers they face on our behalf. When I had concluded my thoughts as governor, I said, “This concludes my thoughts as governor. I would now like to express some personal thoughts to Doyle’s family.” I told a story of how Doyle would let me steer the helicopter and related how it was a comfort knowing his hand was close by to guide me and help me recover from any mistakes. I drew a parallel with the atoning sacrifice of the Savior.

8. Robert Gehrke, “Leavitt Looked to Faith for Philosophy of Government,” Salt Lake Tribune, 4 June 2012. https://archive.sltrib.com/article. php?id=54238847&itype=cmsid

1 President Gordon B. Hinckley and Mike Wallace taking a tour of Temple Square

2 Colin Powell and President Gordon B. Hinckley

3 President Gordon B. Hinckley and President George Bush

I continued, “The last time we flew together, we were approaching the Capitol and Doyle said to me, ‘You better let me take it from here.’” I spoke of the grief that comes from losing a loved one and added, “I’m confident that those who pass on are not devoid of worry about the well-being of their loved ones. I can imagine the comfort Doyle must have felt to receive the same reassurance in the loving arms of the Savior, ‘Doyle, you better let me take it from here.’” I then expressed my specific beliefs about the existence of a life after death and closed by saying, “These personal expressions, I leave in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” I was never criticized when I made clear when I was speaking as governor and when I was speaking for myself.

There were many times I felt guided and bolstered in my service. When I made important decisions, it was not uncommon to feel some uncertainty. I would nearly always make the decision and then pray for a feeling that the decision was rational. Seldom did I feel powerful confirmations, but I would often feel a discernible peace, which I learned to interpret as, “It’s fine.” Not all the decisions when I got that feeling turned out to be great decisions, but they were “fine.” Things worked out. The experience caused me to believe that Heavenly Father doesn’t wave us off all mistakes but allows us to make them and learn from the experience.

Occasionally, I would be steered away from a decision. In one instance, a State Senate seat had been vacated. The law required that the governor choose a replacement, using a list of three names provided by the party of the vacating member. In this case, I knew all three of the candidates, but I was much closer to one than the others. My friend had also received the most votes at the party’s special meeting. After interviewing all three, I told my staff that I would appoint my friend, but I wanted to sleep on it.

I prayed for confirmation about the decision, but a feeling of uncertainty about the decision hung over me. In the morning I decided I should change my mind and choose another candidate. I also prayed for confirmation of the new decision. I didn’t suddenly feel a discernible change, but over

the morning I realized that I felt much better about the decision.

The man I chose went on to be a leader in the State Senate and to do years of public service. I made a better decision because of my reliance on religious habits. The spiritual communication is subtle, but real. Over time, I have learned to rely on it in making better decisions.

While most of my encounters with the Spirit have been more along the line of those I just described, on a significant number of occasions in my life I have felt a more profound engagement. Interestingly, those occasions generally happen at unpredictable times.

One day after a cabinet meeting, I was exiting from the Governors Board Room into my private office. Craig Zwick, the Executive Director of the Department of Transportation, asked if he could see me privately for a few minutes. We closed the door and as we sat down, before he could say a word, I felt spiritual communication that conveyed what he had come to tell me. It was accompanied by a warm reassuring feeling I recognized.

Craig then told me what I already knew. He had been called to be a General Authority of the Church and would need to resign in April. President Hinckley had authorized him to tell me, but asked that I keep it in complete confidence—which I did.

I recognized that I had been blessed by a unique spiritual moment. What was less evident to me was why. There was no reason I needed to know thirty seconds before I would be explicitly told verbally by Craig. Perhaps on that day, Heavenly Father just wanted to send me a gift to remind me he was there. If so, it worked.

From left: Second Counselor, James E. Faust; First Counselor, Thomas S. Monson; Governor Mike Leavitt; President, Gordon B. Hinckley

President Gordon B. Hinckley and his wife Marjorie at This is the Place Monument

17

Staying Close to People

The first governor of Utah I ever met was George Dewey Clyde. I was an eight-year-old Cub Scout, and our den paid a visit to the El Escalante Hotel in Cedar City to see Governor Clyde, who was conducting business in Southern Utah that day.

I have no idea why he was in town; he was possibly just meeting with citizens at large. I do remember waiting in an outer office for a long time and then being ushered into another room

where we met the governor. I have little memory of any conversation that occurred, but the man and the moment were not lost on me. It simply felt significant that he was a governor.

I often thought of that meeting during my own time in office as I met Boy Scouts and other citizens. I also recall the framed retirement certificates hanging on the walls of both my grandfathers’ houses, acknowledging their years of service as public employees. The certificates were proudly displayed because they were signed by the governor of Utah.

Those memories underscored for me the impact and significance of the office, the highest public office in Utah. No matter the party affiliation or even the personality of the individual serving, society bestows social importance upon the office itself, an air of gravitas beyond even the officeholder’s legal authority.

Offering Advice

Early in my third term, a newly elected governor from another state and his wife flew to Salt Lake City to spend the evening with Jackie and me. They confided that they were struggling with the public role of being governor. He said, “I feel like I’m trying to act like a big shot and it makes me uncomfortable.”

With more than eight years of experience at that point, Jackie and I felt capable of providing some insights. “Governors are not just a formalized state legal power,” we said, “They are guardians of a franchise brand: The Governor. There is only one at a time in each state.” We suggested the two of them think of the role as that of a “public symbol.” “It has very little to do with the individual who is the governor and everything to do with the role itself. Rather than be embarrassed by it,” we said, “think of it as an obligation and a great privilege. A way, like few others, to uplift or bless the lives of people.”

“ Rooster today, feather duster tomorrow.”

People like to stand by the public symbol and have their picture taken. They like the governor to turn up at their event, because if the public symbol is there, it means the event is important. People feel free to say things about the public symbol that are unfairly harsh. And sometimes they ascribe far more virtue or power than exists.

Early in my service, I realized that as governor I could “minister” to people in a secular sort of way. I could raise their spirits, cause them to think, increase their self-esteem. When the designated public symbol takes an interest in you, it’s an important moment. People put pictures taken with you and letters from you on their wall. I often

likened it to having “magic dust” in my pockets, which I could sprinkle around and make people feel better. It’s a nonstop supply of magic dust, up until the day you leave office.

I’ve also observed that the opposite can be true. A governor can fill his or her pocket with coal dust, and when he or she sprinkles it, it will make everything black. So there is a unique opportunity and an obligation that falls to a governor—and others with celebrity.

It should never be taken for granted, since it does indeed vanish or subside dramatically almost instantly upon leaving office. An old Australian proverb gets it right: “Rooster today, feather duster tomorrow.”

Having positive contact with people is not only an important way to provide service—it is essential to governing. Power to govern in a democracy comes from having the support of the people. The public supports and follows those it likes or at least respects, so being likeable and respected builds the capacity to get things done. This is among the most important potential advantages the leader of the executive branch has over the legislative branch. The governor has a personality, while the legislature has only a collective brand, generally negative.

Here is a good example of what I’ve been saying. I was at the Allen & Company Sun Valley Conference one year, and I met the actor Tom Hanks. We’d never met before, but I felt that as a fan of his movies we had something of a connection. I was a bit put off when we greeted each other and he didn’t seem quite as pleased as I felt. It was an important reminder that within Utah, my being the highest-ranking public object meant most people felt they had a relationship with me. I needed to convey warmth, or they felt discounted. Hanks struck me as having no such connection to me as a fan.

For my part, the warmth factor remained important, and there are lots of small nuances one learns to help with this. For example, I quit saying, “Nice to meet you” and replaced it with, “Good to see you.” If we had met before, the “Nice to meet you” greeting was interpreted as, “You’ve forgotten that we know each other.”

One learns the value of calling people by name as well. In many situations it is overly familiar, but if you’re the public symbol people feel reinforced in their relationship. I learned from George W. Bush the value of mentioning people’s names in a microphone. He often just recited a list of prominent people and friends compiled by staff. Still, it is always important when the president of the United States, the ultimate public object, says your name.

Likewise, the power of appropriate touch, such as a handshake, is important to understand. When combined with looking people in the eye and a nanosecond’s pause, the person will feel a connection.

Utah Parades

Jackie and I attended lots of parades as one way to connect with the people of Utah. My favorites were the smaller parades, like the Bountiful Handcart Days celebrating the July 24th Pioneer Days commemorations. Many communities have fruit-and-vegetable-themed parades, traditions that likewise date back to pioneer times when earlier Utahns began celebrating the harvest or a county fair. Utah has Peach Days in Brigham City, Onion Days in Spanish Fork, Strawberry Days in Pleasant Grove, and many other celebrations in different cities, some with and some without parades.

Then there is a class of parades that are megaevents unto themselves. Utah has two: the Days of ’47 Parade in Salt Lake City celebrating the July 24th state holiday, and the July 4th Parade and Freedom Festival in Provo, celebrating America’s Independence Day. Both of these draw over 300,000 people and statewide television audiences.

By the time our public service had concluded, Jackie and I had turned parades into an art form. We learned to use them as personal interactions with thousands of people rather than an impersonal display of two people in the back seat of a convertible.

We proactively engaged people with contact, which could come in several forms. I learned to segment crowds by looking slightly ahead of the car, choosing a person or a small, connected group of people and engaging with them. Eye contact was critical, and was made even better, if possible, with conversation. I would attempt to get a response

from whoever I was engaging with at the moment. Quickly, the people around them would become engaged in a light conversation. Often, I would see people I recognized. If the governor calls a person by name in a parade, it gets attention and provides a nice moment for the person. I would then look ahead another short distance and repeat the process. If Jackie was with me, she would engage the other side, but periodically we would share exchanges with the same people.

I found it important to leave the car at various times during a parade and actually mix with the crowd. The security detail wasn’t crazy about that, but in reality it was never a significant problem. I would shake hands, bend down, and talk to a child or adult. Often I would move to the other side of the street and do the same thing. Parades always stop for periods of time, so rather than sit and wait, I found this to be a great time to engage people.

Early on in our service, I began engaging the Highway Patrol Motorcycle Squad. This was a special unit of highway officers who rode Harley Davidson bikes and did different formations and drills as they rode down the street. They made a lot of noise and used their sirens, creating a lot of excitement and commotion around our car. Often, I would signal a highway patrolman and change places with him. He would sit in the backseat of the convertible with Jackie, sort of awkwardly waving, and I would ride his Harley. It got so I could do some of the simple drills they did. People loved it, and so did I.

My favorite parades were the ones where I could walk rather than ride. I would never stay in the middle of the road but rather move from side to side, talking with people as I walked. It felt much more intimate and people were always responsive. One year in the Bountiful Handcart Days parade, it started to rain in a massive downpour. It was a beautiful, warm summer rain, and the crowd just stayed put, so we just kept walking. Crowd and participants alike got soaked. But it was like a giant party where everyone had the same exuberant experience—perhaps one of the most memorable parades ever.

1-6 Various Utah parades that Mike Leavitt and Jackie Leavitt participated in

Often, I would wear cowboy boots and a big cowboy hat in parades. One year, I was working the crowd as the parade moved along. I walked by a couple of adolescent boys sitting on the curb, and as I passed, one of them said, “So who are you?” I responded, “Who do you think I am?” One boy looked at the other, and then at my cowboy hat. He guessed and said, “George Strait.”

I enjoyed the really small-town parades. In many of them, there were more people in the parade than watching the parade. The parade would even go one direction down the main street and then do a U-turn so the people who were in the parade could see each other.

Perhaps one of the most charming parts of parades like that was the tradition of throwing candy to the children. It was like a combination of Halloween and the 4th of July, because every entry tossed wrapped candy. One particularly interesting twist on that theme is in Kamas, Utah, where the parade entries toss out candy on the way down the streets, and then parade viewers on the side of the road throw it back at the parade entries as they return.

“Let Me Speak to the Governor”

In the beginning of our service, I found it hard to turn things down. A governor gets multiple event invitations every day. I wanted to be accessible and to do a good job, but it became quite evident that being selective was a necessity if one were to have any life at all as a family. I realized I needed to find ways of communicating with large masses of people electronically.

Dale Zabriskie was executive director of the Utah Broadcasters Association, which represented the state’s radio stations. Dale suggested that we assemble a radio program once a month for an hour where I would take telephone calls directly from listeners. I readily agreed.

Dale assembled seventeen radio stations throughout the state who would carry the program during evening drive time, ensuring a very large audience. I don’t know the estimated size, but it had to be measured in tens of thousands. The stations would rotate having their personnel host the show. I did the show nearly every month for at least ten years.

Mike on a Utah Highway Patrol motorcyle, Provo Freedom Days Parade

We called it “Let Me Speak to the Governor.” I wanted the hallmark of the show to be both engagement and action. So it was not just an opportunity to talk with the governor—you could bring us a problem, and we’d get something done. I had every cabinet officer agree to stand by their phone while listening to the program. If a question or problem came up that involved their area, I would listen carefully to the caller’s question or request and either answer myself, or ask the caller to continue listening, and we would get an answer before the program was over.

Typically, we would handle twelve to fifteen calls per night. Sometimes the issues they raised were policy matters. Other times they were personal. I had people call about abuse they were experiencing. Prisoners called from jail. Complaints about roads, state services, or other branches of government were lodged. Not only did the program help me stay connected with people, it was a wonderful way to know what was on their minds.

As the program matured, we began to hold it most frequently at KSL Radio with Doug Wright as the host. He is very good in that format, and we acquired a rhythm that both of us seemed to enjoy.

The program worked so well that we decided to try a similar effort on television. At first, we did it at an independent station owned by the Larry Miller family, with Spence Kinard, a former news director at KSL television, as the host. The show was well done. On one occasion, the station arranged to do the show from our ranch in Loa. They sent a satellite truck and we set up chairs on the ranch house lawn. As the sun went down and the familiar shadows crept across our farm fields, I answered viewer questions. It was a unique show. The station changed hands and we moved the show to KBYU, where David Magleby, a political science professor, took over host duties.

Because KBYU was an educational television station, students managed and produced the program. The program was conducted in a very business-like manner and provided good information. However, the combination of live television and students at the controls produced some hilarious moments.

Television and radio stations often use a seven-second delay system. This allows them to preempt any unanticipated problems from being broadcast to the public. For the first several programs, KBYU did not have such a system in place. David Magleby would simply push a flashing line on a phone, and just like that the caller would be speaking to us and thousands of listeners. It wasn’t unusual for people, usually students, to call with something a little edgy. It was David’s job to manage those situations.

One evening, a caller said, “I would like to talk about sales tax collections. But before I do, I want to tell you about a new technology that allows one to mind-meld with Howard Stern’s genitals.”

David lurched for the phone to cut the caller off. To do so, he hit another flashing light on the phone to get another caller, catching the person next in line by complete surprise. The new caller, a man who seemed to be in his sixties, had been listening to the previous caller and was obviously talking to his wife. “. . . I don’t know,” he said, “it was something about Howard Stern’s genitals. . .” David lurched for the phone again, this time accidentally hitting an intercom button that led to the control room of the station. There, student producers were panicking, realizing that two references to Howard Stern’s privates had just been broadcast over the airwaves. A student producer said, “Oh shit!” This, too, was broadcast.

By this time, I was unconstrained in my laughter. We had to take a commercial break to compose ourselves and start again. Needless to say, by the next program, a seven-second delay system had been installed.

On another show, we got a string of just goofy questions. The last question put us over the top—a woman called asking me to intervene in a situation with her car-repair shop, which had charged her for an oil change she hadn’t ordered.

I glanced at David and noticed that the corners of his mouth had begun to quiver as he tried to restrain laughter. That triggered the same impulse in me. Suddenly, almost without warning, both of us were on live television laughing so uncontrollably that neither of us could speak. David would get two

1 Jackie and Mike with LaVell Edwards, head coach of BYU football, at his retirement celebration

2 Mike and other dignitaries

3 “Mower Boy”

or three words out and we would both be compelled into an even deeper laughter. This went on for more than sixty seconds, which is eons on live TV. By this time, we both had tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks. Finally, I managed to say, “David, I believe we need a break.” The producers cut and went to commercial break. We fought to regain our composure and were able to finish the program. However, to this day, David and I break into the same uncontrollable laughter whenever we talk about this experience.

Visiting Schools

During my first campaign, I made a commitment that I would stay close to education. Without thinking about the logistical challenge and time commitment that entailed, I pledged to visit a school every week. I later reshaped the promise to include the words, “on average,” in order to cover me when I couldn’t get to a school in a particular week. And during my first term I kept that commitment.

It actually turned out to be a very helpful process. It did keep me in touch with schools and also provided me with an ongoing platform on education. I discovered, too, that we could make it into a wonderful way to touch a community.

I realized fairly soon that although the kids liked our interactions and I got more skilled at talking with them, we needed to attract more adults to the schools. So we developed a means by which the parents would be invited to attend, and then we provided materials—or “leave-behinds”—that the children carried home. If people in a community didn’t attend, at least they knew I was there. In the years since I was governor those children have grown into adults. With some frequency one will say to me, “You came to my school.” It was for them the same experience I had with George Dewey Clyde as an eight-year-old cub scout.

One of those instances was at an event featuring Tony Finau, a prominent PGA golf professional. Seeing me in the crowd he noted, “Governor Leavitt is here. He came to my school in Rose Park when I was in elementary school.”

Interestingly, I remember my visits to elementary schools in Rose Park. There were lots of Hispanic and Polynesian kids sitting on the floor in

front of me. At the time, I remember thinking about what these children would be like as adults. I hoped my visits communicated their importance.

Being in touch with people is not just about public relations. It is the only way you stay in touch with problems. I had many experiences that were valuable in helping me understand the difficulties that play out in children’s lives and how schools are often at the epicenter of those dramas.

At a school in central Salt Lake City, I had just finished a student assembly and was walking toward the door when a small boy, probably a second-grader or close to that age, began to talk to me, tears streaming down his face. I stopped and knelt down so I could hear him and understand what was wrong. I said, “Are you okay?”

“No,” he said, “It’s my mom. They won’t let me see my mom.” He began to weep uncontrollably.

I put my arms around him and said, “Let’s go see if we can figure this out.” I took the boy to a teacher and related to her what had occurred. She whispered to me that the boy had been removed from his home by Child Protective Services, workers and was distraught over it.

It was evident that this little boy didn’t know what to do, but he saw somebody that was supposedly important, and in desperation he had reached out to me. Before I left, I knelt down again and thanked the little boy for talking to me. He had by this time composed himself. I promised him that the people who were working with him and his mother wanted them to be back together and said I would check to make sure they did their best.

It would have been inappropriate for me to intervene in the situation; I had to have confidence in the people handling the case. But I left that day with a different perspective on child welfare—the perspective of a child.

On another school visit, this time in West Valley, the children, probably third or fourth graders, were sitting on the floor of the gym listening to a program. To mix with them, I sat down on the floor next to some of the kids and began talking with them. One young Hispanic boy hadn’t said

anything, so I tried to engage him by asking how he liked school. He did not respond. I tried two or three additional questions, but still no response. Finally, one of the other children then whispered in my ear, “He doesn’t speak English.”

“ I miss the enhanced capacity to minister to people individually, and to have a relationship with every citizen of the state, no matter who they were or whether we had met formally.”

Afterward, I spoke with the teacher. She told me that the child had been enrolled in their school several days earlier. He was from a migrant family who was in Utah temporarily. She said, “This happens all the time. He’ll be here a few weeks and then he’ll just disappear as the family moves on. We just do the best we can while he is with us.” Through experiences like that, I became more sensitive to the dilemma faced by teachers, students, and families.

In another elementary school visit, this time in the Rose Park area of Salt Lake City, I visited a school where nineteen different languages were spoken and more than a third of the students had a parent in jail. It’s hard to understand this kind of problem until you see it firsthand.

I also witnessed great things. I remember a special program I visited at a high school in Utah County where they had integrated art, history, and English into a three-hour class. Students studied history, but also wrote about it and created works of art to help them learn artistic skills. It made the lessons of history dynamic for them. When I was there, the teacher had given each student a roll of

paper calculator tape and had the students sketch depictions of each historical event they studied. Their final exam was to review their tape with the teacher and recount the details of the events they had studied. I was inspired by what I saw. I would have loved learning that way.

As it turned out, visiting a school a week not only helped me stay in front of people, but it was one of the most productive learning experiences I had. I continued to visit schools during my second and third terms. Over the course of my service, I’m sure I visited a meaningful percentage of the schools in Utah.

Another important way we found to maximize the Governor’s Office as an influence for good was to participate in public service campaigns. Both Jackie and I did this often. I did television and radio campaign messages for water conservation, carpooling, anti-smoking, and drug abuse. These campaigns moved the community in ways we believed were right. At the same time, the frequent engagement built a strong relationship with the people of Utah.

Some years following my service, the Western Governors’ Association invited me to attend their annual meeting to reflect on how to continue making a difference after one’s time as governor had concluded. Someone asked what I missed most about being governor. My answer was unequivocal. “I miss the enhanced capacity to minister to people individually, and to have a relationship with every citizen of the state, no matter who they were or whether we had met formally. If the governor tells a thirteen-year-old they did a good job, it lifts them. If the governor listens in a way that causes a person who is suffering to know they have been heard, it provides a sense of relief.” I went on to tell them it is instances where you use your personal capacity to affect people that will be your most poignant memories, not the exercise of constitutional authority. And so it is for me. Being governor of Utah was singular privilege because it put me close to people.

18

Office of The First Lady

There is no official playbook for first ladies or first gentlemen when his or her spouse becomes chief executive, but there is an unofficial maxim from those who have done it themselves: Define the role your way.

Jacalyn Smith Leavitt, Utah’s fourteenth First Lady, stepped into the role in 1993 with a bustling young family, a background in secondary and elementary education, and heartfelt ideas about where her impact and time might best be applied to public service endeavors. At the top of the list—children, families, marriage. The choices were natural. As she put it, “I had graduated in education and was very focused on my young family.”

Settling the family into new routines at the Governor’s Mansion and into a higher-intensity lifestyle had to come first, though. We’d always had an energetic but orderly household, and Jackie wanted the structure and pace of First Family life to follow our pre-governorship routines as seamlessly as possible. When the fire at the Mansion in late 1993 forced a relocation just ten months after we had moved in, the return to our former home on Laird Avenue had a settling effect, and the familiar rhythm and flow of family life resumed.

There were invitations, projects, events, and initiatives for Jackie to consider from Inauguration Day onward, competing demands all seeking a first-lady stamp of approval or involvement to some extent.

Requests for appearances and speaking events were plentiful. Parades, dinners, and special events were consistently part of her schedule for more than a decade, as were hundreds of the lighter, more personal touches—the many greetings, welcomes, conversations, and expressions of interest Jackie conveyed to thousands of Utahns on a regular basis.

Initiatives were a more ongoing, lasting, and self-directed consideration, often requiring planning and coordination with my office and state agencies or collaboration with a national cause. And those impacted the lives of many more.

Just as I had a supply of “magic dust” as governor to uplift and encourage Utahns, Jackie had her own special supply of “magic dust,” which she used to also uplift and encourage Utahns. She combined her interest and commitment to children and family issues with her influence as First Lady to strengthen the families of the state, with initiatives such as Every Child by Two and the Governor’s Initiative on Families Today.

Childhood Immunization

First up for Jackie was the Every Child By Two campaign, a childhood immunization campaign tied to a larger nationwide effort headed by two former first ladies and advanced in Utah by state health director Rod Betit.

Rod had sought out Jackie almost immediately to lead Utah’s promotion efforts and chair a new Every Child By Two Task Force, which had begun emphasizing the importance of vaccinating children by age two. Jackie readily accepted and chaired the task force for eleven years.

She kicked off the Utah campaign at an immunization conference in Ogden on March 31, 1993, little more than a month after my swearing-in ceremony. By her side were former U.S. First Lady

Rosalynn Carter and Betty Bumpers, former first lady of Arkansas. Earlier in the day, Jackie and I had taken the two former first ladies to Capitol Hill, introducing them to legislators and state officials.

“ I am deeply concerned about the health and wellbeing of our children.”

Utah had lackluster immunization rates for childhood immunizations such as the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) and DPT (diptheria, pertussis, whooping cough) shots—a 46.5 percent rate at the time. And just two years earlier in 1991, the Deseret News reported that the state had experienced the largest measles epidemic in fifteen years, with more than two hundred cases reported.1

Within months of the task force kickoff, Jackie stood before the news media again to announce a multi-week mobile vaccination effort in which free immunizations would be provided at Smith’s Food and Drug stores using a traveling medical van—the “Care-A-Van.”

My administration was moving quickly, as was Jackie’s coalition, hoping to reach the estimated forty thousand Utah children under age two who had not been vaccinated. “I am deeply concerned about the health and well-being of our children,” she told the press, “Less than half are immunized.” The new coalition had a much higher goal in mind— 90 percent.

Thus began regular meetings at the Mansion with the task force, reviewing numbers and brainstorming the ways they could raise awareness and boost immunization numbers upward. And as she would do time and again for multiple programs, Jackie was the immunization effort’s face and voice.

Immunizations are a nonpartisan issue, but not a controversy-free topic. There was often pushback from citizens, Jackie recalls. Some felt the vaccine

1. Beverley DeVoy, “Immunization is a basic right, Carter says,” Deseret News, 1

push was motivated by pharmaceutical companies to increase their profits; others felt it was a government intrusion into family life. Some simply disliked the concept of vaccinations, equating it to introducing an unnecessary poison to a healthy body; or (after 1998) they suspected vaccines as the cause of subsequent medical problems like autism.

Jackie had no such reservations. All five of our own children had been regularly vaccinated, and her task force cited the overwhelming support of childhood immunization by medical professionals, including the American Medical Association and American Pediatric Association.

It was the only program of the many she spearheaded or became involved with that generated any significant negative response, mostly letters of disagreement. The task force would discuss the opposing arguments, but always held to the view that immunizations were sound science and should be encouraged. Pitches to parents became commonplace on radio and television public service announcements, with Jackie’s voice-overs and the catchphrase “Every child by two—it’s up to you.” She also promoted the effort at public appearances.

“People had strong opinions on both sides, and they would often criticize. I wanted to be sure when I was talking that I would know what I was talking about, and I tried to be involved in things that people would think were nonpartisan,” Jackie recalls.

Along with the immunization campaign, Jackie also engaged with Baby Watch, a public awareness effort to help parents monitor and seek health-provider guidance and support if their children’s mental and physical development were not meeting pediatric development markers.

Pediatricians were the front line of that effort, talking with mothers and fathers at regular checkups of their babies. “It often started with the mother saying, ‘I think he’s supposed to be crawling by now but just scoots around on his tummy. Is that normal?’ A lot of it had to do with physical activities and then how their speech was progressing,” Jackie says.

More public service announcements were done to increase public awareness of Baby Watch as well. “We realized we’ve got to alert parents to age-appropriate activities with your child, because if

Mike and Jackie in front of the Utah Governor's Mansion.

they’re not saying words and talking by three years old, they’re way behind.” And there was help.

The Utah Health Department was involved with Baby Watch as well, and tag-teamed with Jackie in a similar way to the immunization effort. “People were getting to know me a little better, and the health department would say, ‘Would you help with this? We’ll find a station that will air public service announcements.’ Lots of times I would just do a voice-over. They’d have a baby or mom or dad there, and then I would do my part.”

“

The most basic unit in our society is family.”

One favorite moment captured in a photo image showed a smiling Jackie holding a young child during a film shoot at Hogle Zoo, one of the locations for the various public service announcements she did.

When the Children’s Health Insurance Program (CHIP) was introduced in the state several years later, new screening questions for physicians and educational materials for parents were integrated with health care insurance for children. Baby Watch and the immunization effort became complementary to CHIP.

Jackie helped kick off CHIP as well and followed up with public service announcements and public advocacy letting parents know that health insurance was available for their children, whether the parent had it themselves or not.

She was kept informed of the increasing numbers of insured youngsters and had other indicators that it was working. “One time it was seventeen thousand more children that got insurance. It began to level off as more became insured, but it really increased at first. I’d also see parents who would say, ‘Oh, I have my children on the CHIP program. That works!’”

GIFT

If childhood immunization was a prominent and ongoing agenda item on the First Lady’s schedule, an even larger commitment was the marriage

and family-focused initiative launched in my first term of office, GIFT—the Governor’s Initiative on Families Today.

GIFT was created by a grant from the legislature in 1994 and was chaired from the onset by Jackie. Its stated mission was to support and strengthen family relationships, reaching as many Utah families as possible with parenting, family relationship, and communication skills.

Jackie’s first executive assistant, Carol Bench, became director of the program, which had a fifty-member advisory committee and worked closely with multiple state agencies, such as the Department of Human Services and the Ethnic Affairs Offices of the Department of Community and Economic Development.

“Plato said, ‘The most basic unit in our society is family,’ and we would often say that too, because if you have a family that flourishes and is productive, it is more likely the husband and wife have a strong relationship,” Jackie says.

GIFT used a variety of approaches. Family conferences and marriage seminars were held in regions around the state. Media programs and commercials spread the word on television and radio to inform families of events, available resources, and tips on parenting.

The five ethnic offices operating under the Department of Community and Economic Development—Asian Affairs, Black Affairs, Hispanic Affairs, Indian Affairs, and Polynesian Affairs— took the lead on directing the specific family conferences for their own communities.

The ethnic conferences were tailored to the interests, cultures, and unique concerns of the respective minority groups and would feature expert speakers from a variety of fields. Likewise, the conference programs also highlighted each culture with dances, music, and festivities, and often celebrated the educational, sports, and leadership achievements of the children of ethnic families.

Workshops at the 1997 Polynesian Conference, for example, offered sessions on the juvenile justice system, benefits and assistance for the elderly, coping with the challenges for Polynesian youth, and

educational scholarships and financial assistance. A conference for Filipinos in 1995 delved deep into cultural assimilation concerns, asking, “Where did we come from, why are we here in Utah, and where are we going?”

Jackie and I went to all of them and often gave the keynote addresses.

A larger, more encompassing conference was held annually at the Salt Palace Convention Center. Colleges and universities came on board as well, offering marriage-related classes. An elective high school course—Adult Roles and Responsibilities— was encouraged to be offered and taught at nearly one hundred high schools around the state.

Over time, positive feedback streamed in, particularly from the marriage conferences, indicating to Jackie that the effort was worthwhile. She stayed informed and involved even after leaving the state for Washington during my five years of federal service.

“It was really gratifying. People would write things about how it made a difference. The commitment to it paid off,” she says.

Utah Marriage Commission

In 1998, Jackie stepped up the effort still further, creating the Utah Marriage Commission under the auspices of GIFT—the first such state commission in the nation. The commission zeroed in specifically on marriage—helping people form and sustain healthy, enduring marriages—with a special focus on serving populations at higher risk for family instability.

Originating in the Governor’s Office, the commission was moved into the Department of Workforce Services in 2004, and in 2013 was formally put under statute and transferred to the Department of Human Services, where its work remained ongoing and supported with TANF (Temporary Assistance for Needy Families) funds.

The Marriage Commission was all Jackie’s innovation. She had the interest and saw the importance of the issue before I did. We discussed it, and she soon began working with the beginnings of a group that evolved into the Marriage Commission. Jackie was the energy force for the whole endeavor.

There were at least twenty volunteer members serving on the commission, who would meet multiple times a year. Jackie attended and was the honorary chair of that group too, for the duration of the Leavitt Administration. Melanie Reese served for many years as its executive director. “It’s still functioning very well,” Jackie says. “We’d have legislators, therapists, faith leaders, an office of education representative, and someone who oversaw the teaching.”

They would start with key focus areas, which Jackie describes as communications, responsibilities (who does what around the house), fairness, respect, and how each treats the other.

“There were about ten different areas that can really help couples, who should, before they’re married, be discussing children, in-laws—how much time, how many children or if there are going to be children. Fiscal responsibility . . . that was really important because you had couples going into marriage where one had thousands of dollars in debt, and you do not want to surprise your mate with that! So, we’d talk about all the challenges of marriage so that people could see these subjects should be addressed, and it could be done in a healthy way.”

The Adult Roles and Responsibilities high school class was regularly promoted to underscore for young adults how much there was to think about before marriage, and to convey that help was available to enrich a marriage, including counseling. In more recent years, completion of a premarital class came with an incentive—a twenty-dollar discount on marriage licenses in Utah County.

There was occasional pushback directed at the messaging behind the Marriage Commission, but not to the degree or extent of the immunization effort—and seemed to drill down more on whether the state was promoting a particular value system by promoting marriage.

“People would ask questions, ‘Are you trying to say women have to stay in marriages? What about abuse?’” Jackie recalls. “And we’d say, ‘We can help. We have resources. A person should never

stay in a marriage where they feel unsafe. People had experiences where they really wanted to make sure that viewpoint was expressed. They do have strong feelings.”

“ It’s a simple message: read to your children.”

While same-sex marriage was not lawful when the commission was created, Jackie says the program did not exclude nontraditional relationships. The purpose, she says, was to build “stronger relationships for any couple.”

Child Literacy

Along with establishing the Marriage Commission in the second term of office, child literacy became another high-profile effort for Jackie, another of those issues she considered a natural fit as a mother and former teacher. In 1999, she began her Read to Me campaign, promoting regular reading to young children.

Her involvement bolstered more than one hundred literacy programs throughout the state, reinforcing the message that parents are a child’s first teacher. It was not just a message, however. Jackie authored a book, also titled Read to Me, which was given to all newborns and their parents in Utah in 2000—approximately fifty thousand copies that year. More would follow.

She also made First Lady rounds at hospitals from time to time, visiting new mothers and their newborns and handing out a care package that included the book, a baby T-shirt, and a pamphlet suggesting ways to incorporate reading into children’s daily routines.

“It’s a simple message: read to your children,” she told the Herald Journal while visiting a hospital in Cache County. “It’s something you can do anywhere, anytime, and it isn’t an expensive pastime. It’s something that’s very important for bonding and sharing, but also it makes that foundation of language start to build.”2

Bully Pulpit

Strong families, stable marriages, and thriving children—all beneficial to society, all nonpartisan. And those are topics that can be a minefield for a state official to wade into in an official capacity if seen as moralizing or bringing religious values into the business of the state. I, as governor, had to be circumspect when it came to “values;” Jackie Leavitt had more leeway.

I pushed the envelope a bit, primarily in inaugural and state of the state speeches. For example, a theory I formulated on the “economics of goodness,” which was rolled out at some length in the 1998 State of the State speech, envisioned numerous economic and social service benefits to a state or society that fostered “the inclination of its citizens to do the right thing, voluntarily.”

The theory’s operative notion was that there is nothing more economically devastating than a growing population of people that instinctively do wrong—and no stronger economic force over the long run than people doing right.

As expressed in the speech: “Imagine the economic heft of a nation free of drug and alcohol abuse. Health care costs would plummet, worker productivity would skyrocket. Families torn apart by the abuse and financial hardship wrought by substance addiction would remain together. Welfare rolls would fall. Crime costs would shrink, and that society would build fewer prisons.”

I wanted the legislature to think of the savings— what our state, or a nation for that matter, could do with the taxpayer monies recouped from crime, welfare, and sheer human misery; the money could be reapplied to education, research, technology, investment, and much more.

I’d had memorable discussions with juvenile court officials about the correlation between family stability and crime, abuse, and at-risk children. They told me they could compile a list of people

2. Michael R. Weibel, “First lady promotes reading skills.” Herald Journal , 10 February 2000. https://www.hjnews.com/first-lady-promotesreading-skills/article_59fa66c6-d2b9-514c-96c4-a41f2b8ae399.html

1 Jackie with Cathy Keating, First Lady of Oklahoma at a book signing. The book featured photos and histories of the governors'.

2 Jackie promoting Missing Kids campaign

3 Immunize by Two

4 Faux Paw the Techno Cat

5 Anne Marie, Westin, and Melissa Handley, Mansion Manager

6 Jackie showing love and compassion

who would be in jail within the next ten years because, as youngsters, those people were already being served by every available family program. The figure was staggering: 84 percent of those in adult prison came from broken homes.

Statistics always show the pattern: when the family structure breaks down and a child begins to feel unstable, home life and school life deteriorate. Destructive behaviors like substance abuse soon follow, escalating to crime and further destruction. The correlation between welfare and out-of-wedlock births was the same way.

I knew it, and Jackie understood it as well. But she could highlight, encourage, and persuade in ways that I, as the governor holding the policy and enforcement powers of the state, often could not.

Talking about the economics of goodness was on the edge. Jackie’s family initiative, GIFT, and marriage commission were a way to begin to connect public policy with those subjects—a way to connect the economics and the behavior change that needed to occur.

It’s one thing to encourage policies; it’s another thing to encourage behavior, and the first spouse can encourage behavior more comfortably than an elected governor.

On the policy side, I supported and pushed through the measures that funded the promotion of marriage, the Marriage Commission, and the many programs and resources directed at bolstering the family—to address the societal fallout that occurs when marriages and families break up.

Jackie’s consideration was to take the bully pulpit we had and use it to encourage behavior to produce a better society.

She made those behavioral connections again and again, and not just with her focused initiatives on children’s health and marriage.

She brought attention to other values as well— courage, determination, responsibility and the drive to achieve—in tangible form with a series of children’s books tied to values and events. The books were part of a series called “Worth Remembering,” and dovetailed with Jackie’s child literacy work. Subjects of the books included Utah’s statehood centennial, the tornado that ripped through Salt Lake City in 1999, and the 2002 Winter Olympics.

One of those, The Tornado Desk: A Symbol of Utah’s Spirit and Determination , told of the destruction caused by the tornado that tore a five-mile path from downtown Salt Lake City, up Capitol Hill and into Memory Grove on August 11, 1999—and how a symbolic triumph came out of it.

The tornado had uprooted nearly one hundred trees along the Capitol grounds, some of them

century-old spruces or maples that were grown from saplings possibly taken from George Washington’s home.3 From the wood of the downed trees, a carpentry artisan, Chris Gochnour, husband of my communications deputy, Natalie Gochnour, skillfully fashioned a striking oval desk. When completed, the desk was moved to the Capitol, where the trees had come from, as a “legacy symbolic of the Utah spirit of hard work, cooperation, and determination, to make something good come from great difficulty.”

“ When tragedy happens, people can join together and help each other.”

The desk has been used in every administration ever since. Jackie says the point is basic resilience. “When tragedy happens, people can join together and help each other. That is why the tornado desk was built.”

There were five such Worth Remembering books in all: U for Utah , teaching youngsters interesting facts about the state; The Tornado Desk: Light the Fire Within: Olympic Highlights; Everyday Heroes I; and Everyday Heroes II.

Even before those, however, Jackie and I teamed up to get families talking about their own family values. For the Thanksgiving holiday in 1996, the Governor’s Centennial Commission on Values produced a Keeper of the Flame brochure in which Jackie and I encouraged Utahns to take the opportunity of a family-oriented holiday to think about and discuss standard values, including honesty, respect, responsibility, unity, trust, caring, and hard work.

The brochure pictured the Keeper of the Flame painting of the boy holding a lamb in a snowstorm, a commemoration of the Okerlund family story about ten-year-old Melvin Okerlund keeping the fire burning so that his brothers looking for sheep

in the storm could find their way back. It was sent to Utah schools for students to take home to parents and hopefully jump-start value conversations in their own homes.

We took part in those conversation as a family ourselves, spending Thanksgiving in Logan at the home of Jackie’s sister, Christie Needham, with Christie’s husband Eugene, and their children. Another sister, Dixie Lou Poole, her husband Morris, and their children joined us. In all, about thirty Leavitts, Needhams, and Pooles gathered, ate turkey—and talked values.

Among the subjects we talked about were how violence and sexual promiscuity on television desensitize people. The Herald Journal wrote about our family discussion and quoted me saying: “We want to start people recognizing that there are basic behaviors that people should pass on to their children.”

There were an estimated 800,000 families in Utah at the time, I told them. “If we got eighty thousand, that would be important.” 4

Jackie remembers the effort well. The values commission put a diverse group together to help determine common values. “We found that 97 percent of all our values are the same and we have to be able to communicate whatever we say respectfully. That’s how we could take one pamphlet and pass it out to every family, because there are some things very universal and enduring.”

“There was some good success with that. Mostly, the school principals got behind it and didn’t let it just drop. They passed it out to school teachers so they could disseminate it. And it was a really good time during Thanksgiving break to have children talk to their parents about what our values are.”

At least one alternative newspaper sneered at the effort, dismissing the values discussion in a column titled, “Virtuous Mike.” But many more Utahns appreciated the effort and took part.

3. Cooper/Roberts Architects, Utah State Capitol Planning & Historic Structures report, utahstatecapitol.utah.gov, 13 September 2000, vol. 2, p. 39. 4. Phil Jensen, “Doing the family thing,” Herald Journal , 1996.

“It’s getting increasingly rare for elected officials to live moral lives, much less to promote them,” Scott Heiner of Kearns wrote in a letter to the Deseret News. “I doubt any other governor in the United States would have the courage to distribute similar literature promoting decency and uprightness to his citizens.”5

One woman wrote me directly, saying her family had taken part in the discussion and she appreciated the effort. She also told me that her first grader had come home from school with the brochure, excitedly telling her, “Mom, I got a message from the king.”

Talk of values did not abate. Two months after the Keeper of the Flame discussions, my second inaugural speech in January 1997 went even further.

“America’s founders,” I said, “knew from history and their own experience that without a belief in a supreme being, people will redefine morality to their convenience. Contemporary society had done so, developing a misplaced politeness which held that ’we shouldn’t talk about God because it might offend someone.’”

Next came the money line: “Heaven save the society that’s too polite to speak about God.” Letters to the editor and feedback both favorable and unfavorable poured forth.

I took it as a badge of honor.

Faux Paw

By the third term in office, Jackie had established her earlier initiatives as ongoing, resultsdriven programs, written a number of books, and was a trusted figure to Utahns due to her consistent advocacy for families and children.

Then, along came Faux Paw the Techno Cat—one of her most impactful and lasting successes—just as technology was revolutionizing daily life, social media and e-commerce were rapidly becoming ubiquitous, and the speed and scope of it all were

outpacing the ability to confront newly burgeoning threats to privacy, identity, and safety—particularly for children.

Two things had happened somewhat simultaneously. Like many parents who are startled when a child comes across something obscene while innocently surfing the net, one of our children had happened upon pornographic images while online. Coincidentally, about the same time, we had acquired a cat for the Governor’s Office.

“ Heaven save the society that’s too polite to speak about God.”

The cat, the moment, and the issue of Internet safety converged. Jackie was quickly attuned to the threat and quickly had an answer for it.

Faux Paw, at that point, was known simply as the “office cat.” I always liked cats and just decided our office needed one. The orange tabby—with six toes on each of its front paws—was rescued from a shelter.

The First Cat was instantly at home, roaming the halls, offices, and board rooms at will, even jumping onto the conference table during meetings to lounge or sleep, oblivious to the affairs of state. Favorite places besides the conference table were the yellow sofa in my private office and a basket high atop the upper cabinets in the break room.

The cat was brought to the office every weekday by Mary Lou Bozich, a state employee, who took him home at night and then back to work at the Capitol each weekday.

Before Jackie made him famous, the cat’s first profile was as a media critic with his own email address and a website.6 If my office wasn’t keen on a particular story or press report, the cat would be the one to send a missive.

5. Scott Heiner, “Utah’s Fortunate to Have Leavitt,” Deseret News, 24 December 1996. https://www.deseret.com/1996/12/24/19284562/utahs-fortunate-to-have-leavitt

6. Faux Paw the First Cat was male, but Faux Paw the Techno Cat, hero of the books Jackie wrote, was a female.

Leavitt Family at the Governors Mansion. Back row, From left: Jackie, Chase, Anne Marie, Mike S.

Front row: From left: Westin, Mike, Riley the family dog, and Taylor

We then concluded that if we’re going to have a First Cat, the First Cat should have some issues to address. That was the point when Jackie wanted to take on internet safety, and so Faux Paw became the “Techno Cat.” Jackie took it from there, turning the cat into a “spokesfeline” to teach internet safety to kids in an appealing way.

“The cat was the Governor’s Office’s idea, and we just saw how it caught everybody’s attention,” she says. “There were news stories about Faux Paw. And then as I talked with Mike and we had the experiences with our own children, we both agreed it was a very positive step to talk about that.”

The clever name was bestowed, and Jackie did the ground work, teaming up with groups and sponsors, envisioning the marketing approach and ultimately co-authoring six children’s books featuring the cat. She also took the effort national, enlisting other first spouses and sharing the idea with our National Governors Association counterparts.

The main message to children was simple and continuously emphasized as three “Keeps:” Keep safe your private information; Keep away from Internet strangers; Keep telling a parent or trusted adult about anything that makes you uncomfortable online. Every book and Faux Paw message underscored those three key points.

The structural underpinnings of the effort had to be solid as well. First up, Jackie founded the Internet Keep Safe Coalition—iKeepSafe—in 2005, partnering with governors, first spouses, and state attorney generals throughout the US, along with law enforcement agencies and child safety advocates. The first Faux Paw book, Faux Paw the Techno Cat: Adventures in the Internet, came along in short order.

All of it worked. School classes would seek out the cat during visits to Capitol Hill. Jackie would go to schools to promote Internet safety in classes and assemblies. Early attempts to take Faux Paw

around to schools had been abandoned because the cat could get mean or hard to control in such settings. But no matter; a star was born.

The character was friendly, relatable, prone to teachable online mishaps and, above all, a compelling teaching guide to kids.

“ Faux Paw was the perfect way to talk about Internet safety with school children,” Jackie told a reporter for the Valley Journals community newspapers years later. “People would come to the office to see the cat even more than the governor. There was so much interest in the cat that it just fit he would be the mascot or the star of the books.” 7

The iKeepSafe Coalition went on to partner with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and picked up sponsors within Utah and far beyond. Big tech companies such as Comcast, Google, Intel, AT&T, and Facebook came on board, as did Utah foundations like the Larry H. and Gail Miller Family Foundation and the George S. and Dolores Doré Eccles Foundation.

“We felt empowered to use this famous character to do something really good,” Jackie says.

Each book in the series took Faux Paw through a different online dilemma, from innocently giving out personal information and agreeing to meet a stranger to cyberbullying and stumbling upon inappropriate content.

The exuberant cat character encounters new friends, chat rooms, and online adventures or connections while frequently web-surfing, charging ahead into each new experience, warned away from looming threats by the cautious character Cursor— and saved when needed by The Governor.

In other books, the cat encounters famous people and situations, such as U.S. First Lady Laura Bush and her cat Ernie at the White House. Laura Bush provided the foreword for the second book and recorded her own voice for the audio book. In the third volume, the Olympic Games inspires the setting as the “Great Animal Olympics.”

7. Julie Slama, “Former Utah First Lady’s books address internet safety at a time when more students are online,” Valley Journals, 6 March 2020. https://www.valleyjournals.com/2020/05/26/316290/former-utah-first-lady-s-books-address-internet-safety-at-a-time-when-morestudents-are-online

1 Jackie and Mike at the White House

2 Read to Me marketing photo.

3 Jackie and Mike posing with Jazz Bear at the Delta Center, Salt Lake City, Utah.

4 Mike and Jackie taking questions at a GIFT press conference.

The connection to Laura and President Bush was an easy fit. In real life, the Bushes, while still the first couple of Texas, had adopted Ernie the cat, and President Bush and I discovered our cat coincidences during a casual conversation one day. It was almost two stories in parallel: Governor Bush’s cat got lost one time and he had half of state government looking for it.

Faux Paw even teamed up once with “McGruff the Crime Dog” in an animated short film made by Brigham Young University students in 2005. All six books in the series have audiobooks, and four of the six also have animated videos.

“ I trusted her thoroughly, and it was an added bonus to have this delightful woman on board.”

Every elementary school in Utah was given copies of four of the books. The entire series has been available free to parents on the iKeepSafe website, and all six books are in e-book form as well.

Jackie says her co-author for all of them, Sally Shill Linford, made the stories “more fun and clever,” and illustrator Adrian Ropp “was able to take a very difficult subject and add an element of fun and personality to it.”

Six books may not be the end point either for a beloved character with nine lives. “If there are new areas that we need to address, then I might write another,” Jackie recently told Valley Journals.

Remarkably, as of this writing, the rescue cat adopted in 2000 is alive and well, and still living with Mary Lou. In 2020, a picture of the twentyyear-old cat was taken at the Capitol, with Faux Paw posed lying down on the building’s steps next to one of the majestic stone lion sculptures.

First Lady Staff

First Lady business generally was conducted on specific days of the week. Jackie carved out Tuesdays and Thursdays as the “heavy load” days spent on scheduling, task force meetings, public service announcements and other work. Her staff, who worked out of the Mansion, were Judith George, Carol Bench, Carolynne Loder, and Lauralee Hill. Melanie Reese, heading up the Marriage Commission, worked out of the Department of Human Services.

Carol had been a campaign supporter who went to the Mansion with the new administration in 1993, becoming Jackie’s assistant. They planned the First Lady’s events and coordinated her schedule. The goal at the Mansion

Governor’s Residence

Executive/Administrative Assistant to the First Lady

Carol Bench (1993 - 1994)

Judith George (1995 –2003) (Administrative secretary in 1994)

Director of Governor’s Initiative on Families Today

Carol Bench (1995 – 1998)

Centennial Values coordinator, 1997

Abbie Vianes (1999 – 2001)

Melanie Reese (2002 – 2003)

Governor’s Residence Assistant

Shawna Rae Corral (1993 – 2003)

Yoko T. Bishop (2001 – 2003)

Residence Manager

Carolynne Lund-Loder (1993 – 1994, 1998 – 2003)

Lauralee Burton Hill (1995 – 1996)

Allison Ann Norton (1997)

Mansion Assistant

Lauralee Burton Hill (1997)

Assistant Resident Manager

Melissa Handley (1993)

Lauralee Burton Hill (1994)

Shelly Butler (1998)

was to always make people feel welcome. After the first year in office, Carol was asked to be executive director of GIFT and the Women’s Commission.

Judith was the residence manager at the Mansion at the time of the fire and kept a log of the restoration period that followed. After Carol Bench moved on, Judith also became the assistant to the First Lady, handling double duty for a time. Carolynne Lund-Loder became the residence manager in the second term after joining the First Lady’s team shortly after the Mansion was restored and then reopened to the public.

Judith was detail-oriented with superb organizational skills, and the two had a comfortable, positive working relationship, “enhanced by Judith’s kindness and bright mind,” Jackie says. Judith went on to serve as the First Lady’s assistant for the wife of Jon Huntsman Jr., the wife of Gary Herbert, and the wife of Spencer Cox.

Carolynne was a charming, gracious individual, who kept the Mansion running smoothly from the second term through the third, Jackie says,

including the busy days of the 2002 Winter Olympics when the Mansion was a hive of people, activity, and events.

Lauralee, who supported the Mansion staff but often looked after the children, was always a “sunshine person,” Jackie says. “Because we had a young family, her patience and kindness were essential. I trusted her thoroughly, and it was an added bonus to have this delightful woman on board.”

Melanie Reese became the executive director for the Marriage Commission within a couple years of its formation, coming from the State Health Department over to Jackie’s staff. “She hit the ground running,” Jackie says. “Her determination and ability to work effectively with those on the commission drove it forward.”

19

September 11, 2001 - The Attack on the U.S.

The morning of September 11, 2001, felt routine. I was preparing to leave for work from our house on Laird Avenue. Jackie had just left to drive Chase, then a junior at East High School, to his 7:30 a.m. seminary class. Elevenyear-old Westin had joined me in a bedroom to talk as we got ready for the day. My oldest son, Mike, was in the basement preparing to leave for work, having just started his first job after graduating from college. Anne Marie and Taylor were both at Utah State University.

Glancing at my watch, I noted it was 7:40 a.m. “I need to leave,” I thought. I had an 8:00 a.m. meeting at the Governor’s Mansion with Tom Vander Ark of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation

My phone rang. Caller ID showed it to be Joanne Neumann, director of Utah’s national office in Washington, D.C. It wasn’t unusual for her to call me at that time of the morning. My Washington portfolio was robust, and it was convenient for both of us to talk first thing in the morning like that.

The tone of her voice signaled something far different than any previous call—she spoke with a breathless sense of panic. “Are you watching what’s happening here?” she said, nearly shouting at this point, “We’re under attack!”

Ricky Flores of the Journal News took this photograph of the same scene. Like Franklin, Flores captured the scene on a digital camera and framed it vertically, with the destruction behind flattened by dust and perspective. Ricky Flores-USA Today Network

“Westin, turn on the television,” I said, pointing to a wooden, double-doored chest in the room that held a small television, “Something’s happening.”

Joanne could not be calmed. “Two planes have hit the World Trade Center, and now one has hit the Pentagon building,” she said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Yes,” I said, “go, get out of there.”

On television, unimaginable scenes were unfolding live, showing America under attack in two of its major cities, with more devastation yet to come.

As the morning began, four coordinated terror attacks were launched on the east coast by al-Qaeda hijackers using commercial jetliners as weapons. The first two hijacked jets crashed into the twin towers in New York City at 6:46 a.m. and 7:03 a.m., Utah time. At 7:27 a.m., a third hijacked aircraft slammed into the side of the Pentagon. The fourth aircraft, which had departed later than the others, crashed and disintegrated in a field in Pennsylvania at 8:03 a.m. after heroic passengers, who had learned of the previous attacks, fought back against the hijackers and forcefully attempted to gain control of the plane.

“ Two planes have hit the World Trade Center, and now one has hit the Pentagon building.”

Initial shock and confusion soon made room for a seismically grim reality. The United States was at war—but the question was, with whom?

Joanne Neumann and thousands of others spent the next couple of hours trying to get out of Washington, D.C., amid reports that another flight was headed toward Washington, D.C. Their escape was punctuated with the smoke from the Pentagon strike clouding the sky. The White House and U.S. Capitol Building were obvious targets, and both were being evacuated. People were running for their lives, with the expectation that an airliner could crash into those seats of government power at any moment.

Westin and I stood in front of our television watching. I heard Mike S. walking upstairs and called to him, “Mike, you’ll want to watch this.” He joined us. Within moments, Jackie walked in the back door. Her familiar call, “Mike. . .,” had urgency. The tone of her voice made evident she had been listening to the radio.

We all huddled around the television, speechless. Just under an hour after being hit, the South Tower of the World Trade Center collapsed. People streamed through the streets of lower Manhattan, many bloodied or coated with dust, all fleeing the enormous dust and debris cloud pouring from the tower site. It was chaotic and surreal, and playing out for the world to see on live television.

Within minutes came word that the fourth hijacked plane, United Flight 93, had plunged into the ground near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. The 9/11 Commission’s investigation of the attacks would later determine that the Flight 93 hijackers’ intended target was indeed the White House or Capitol.

The combined death toll was not immediately known, but as soon as it was known it was staggering—2,977 people killed in the four crashes, along with the 19 hijackers. And as a traumatized nation watched it live on television, the unease and questions mounted. What would happen next? What did it mean for us?

Jackie whispered: “My mother called me in the car. Her first words were, ‘I hope this doesn’t mean those boys of yours will have to go off to war.’” The thought had crossed my mind, and I completely understood why this moment would be particularly poignant for Cleo Smith and for her generation. They had experience with events such as these. The course of their lives was instantaneously altered when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. It was a moment just like the one we were experiencing, when a foreign adversary had totally surprised our nation with a devastating attack that took thousands of lives. But the Japanese had attacked a military target; this was an attack on civilians and on the mainland of American soil. It was unthinkable.

After Pearl Harbor, Jackie’s father, Lewis Calder Smith, at the age of twenty-three, was deployed as a fighter pilot. He served for the next four years flying combat missions over the Pacific, about 144 of them. Our two oldest sons were within months on either side of the same age. Was Cleo right? I wondered. Would this change the course of our sons’ lives, like it did their grandfather’s?

The North Tower of the World Trade Center fell at 8:28 a.m. Mountain Time, its 110-plus floors pancaking to the ground alongside its twin, both with a similar eruption of dust, flying debris, and ruin. The time that elapsed from the first attack to the final fall: one hour, forty-two minutes. Watching in horrified silence I said to Jackie, “I need to get to the Capitol. We need to open the Emergency Management Center.”

Emergency Management Center

Anticipating the moment, my security detail had already swung into action. Alan Workman, the head of the security detail, had called his entire team in to work. My driver for the day, Shane Nordfelt, or Nordy as we called him, waited in the driveway of our house. We drove with a speedy sense of urgency toward the Mansion, where I stopped briefly to tell participants of a scheduled 9:00 a.m. meeting that there would be no meeting. I called ahead to the office, asking that my senior staff be assembled at the Capitol, and then quickly headed there myself to meet with the state’s comprehensive Emergency Management team.

I walked up the back stairs to my office to huddle with senior staff, then went directly to the Emergency Management Center where the team from state government was beginning to assemble.

The Emergency Management Division of state government, headquartered in the basement of the State Office Building, is part of the Department of Public Safety. One of the division’s key functions is to maintain readiness of an operating center that can be quickly put together in the case of an emergency. It is staffed around the clock. The room is equipped with desks where each part of state government can send a representative. There is radio equipment and other communications gear that

allows coordinated decision making. There is also an office for the governor.

By the time I arrived, the head of public safety, Bob Flowers, was standing by. I was briefed on what they knew at that point. All flights incoming to or over the continental United States had been ordered grounded—an unprecedented decision by the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA). Air Force and Air National Guard bases scrambled fighter jets over New York City and Washington, D.C., while every aircraft other than the military fighters was being summoned to land—they had to be viewed as potential weapons. Over the next two-and-a-half hours, some 3,300 commercial flights and 1,200 private planes were guided to land at airports in Canada and the United States, and the U.S. airports were closed.

“ Mommy, is there still an America?”

The president of the United States, George W. Bush, who had been visiting a school in Florida, boarded Air Force One and was flying to an undisclosed location as officials in Washington tried to determine the breadth of the attacks.

Most of this information was coming from live television coverage. There was no official information being conveyed.

Tension and Patriotism

For the next several weeks, Americans navigated life an atmosphere of stunned shock, soon eclipsed by a sense of profound patriotism that swept across the nation. American flags appeared everywhere; vigils were held; military enlistments soared. Television and other media focused almost exclusively on the recovery operations at the World Trade Center, which quickly became known as Ground Zero. The stories of the family members of the thousands who were lost began to be told. We mourned together as a nation. The tone of society changed as to reflect inwardly. Many began asking deeper questions, turning toward their religious beliefs.

I heard a mother tell a local radio host that her young daughter, confused by all the news and sadness asked, “Mommy, is there still an America?”

With air travel prohibited, the stories of stranded people trying to make their way home became common. Tom Vander Ark from the Gates Foundation, my 8 a.m. appointment that morning, spent several days at the Governor’s Mansion because there were no planes flying for several days. Ultimately, he rented a car and drove home to Seattle. Gary Doxey, general counsel in the Governor’s Office, was in Washington, D.C., at the time and did the same thing, driving cross-country in a rental.

The term “fog of war” well describes the condition that existed for the first few days after the attacks. Events were unfolding simultaneously, but lack of visibility or perspective made it difficult to gain situational awareness. Rumors, misinformation, and fear-based conclusions led to confusion. The United States had been at war many times before, but this was the first time an attack had been

made on American soil. Yes, Pearl Harbor was an American territory at the time, but the 9/11 attack struck right at the heart of our country’s safety and security. It was clear, a page had turned in history.

A Wartime President

Over the next several weeks, news media constantly played a video of the moment Andy Card, the president’s chief of staff, interrupted President Bush on the morning of September 11 as Bush was reading a book to children at a school in Sarasota, Florida. There he was, a former colleague governor and friend who had been elected in a controversial national election decided after recounts, court decisions and a political party dogfight, two hundred thirty-four days after his inauguration facing his generation’s Pearl Harbor. George W. Bush, from that moment on, would be a wartime president.

The events of September 11, 2001, in many ways defined the presidency of George W. Bush. Over the ensuing months, I had many interactions with

President George Bush delivers remarks during the Pentagon 9/11 memorial dedication, September 11, 2008.

the president. The weight of the presidency, compounded now by the intensity of war, had been brought to bear very early in his term. All of his capacity as a leader and human being were being called upon to lead a tense, grieving nation into a unified response.

“ God was lifting an ordinary man to meet the moment—a man I knew.”

Three days after the attack, the president traveled to the World Trade Center site to support first responders who were undergoing the painstaking, dangerous, and gruesome work of sorting through a mountain of twisted steel and debris looking for survivors and the remains of those who were buried in the buildings’ collapse. A spontaneous moment occurred that day which, when coupled with an address to Congress shortly thereafter, galvanized America’s moment of unity.

The president stood on a pile of rubble at Ground Zero, speaking into a portable bullhorn in order to be heard by workers. His arm was draped around the shoulders of Bob Beckwith, a retired member of the New York City Fire Department who had gone to the tower site to help with search and rescue efforts. As President Bush spoke of the nation’s gratitude for their service, workers above him on the pile of debris shouted, “We can’t hear you.” The president looked toward them and said, “I can hear you. The world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down, will hear all of us soon.”1 It was a transformative moment for him and for the nation.

A week later, September 20, 2001, the president appeared in the House of Representatives to address a joint session of Congress and the nation. He had stood at that podium before, but this was different. The nation needed reassurance and a rallying cry; our allies needed a call to action; and any friend to our enemies needed warning.

I vividly recall the feelings I had watching George W. Bush standing on the dais of the House, addressing the nation as members of Congress applauded in a bipartisan show of unity. President Bush is four years, eight months older than me. I wondered if he felt prepared for such a moment with the entire world watching. His speech answered my question. It was powerfully written, and delivered by a man who seemed lifted up in a spiritual way to meet the moment.

The thunderous and prolonged applause by a usually partisan Congress finally subsided. It was a demonstration to the world of a nation shaken but unbowed, confident in its convictions, and now unified.

“We are a country awakened to danger and called to defend freedom. Our grief has turned to anger and anger to resolution. Whether we bring our enemies to justice or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done,” he intoned.

Later in the speech the president spoke, expressing resolve I would later quote in my State of the State address:

Our nation, this generation, will lift the dark threat of violence from our people and our future. We will rally the world to this cause by our efforts, by our courage. We will not tire, we will not falter, and we will not fail.

He concluded by introducing the mother of a first responder who had died along with thousands of others that day. The mother had given the president the officer’s badge. He pledged to carry it with him each day as a reminder, saying:

I will not forget the wound to our country and those who inflicted it. I will not yield, I will not rest, I will not relent in waging this struggle for freedom and security for the American people.

The course of this conflict is not known, yet its outcome is certain. Freedom and fear, justice and cruelty, have always been at war, and we know that God is not neutral between them.2

1. George W. Bush, “George W. Bush visits Ground Zero,” 14 September 2001, Youtube video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SeVEUNI-Cuo

2. George W. Bush, “Transcript of President Bush’s address: September 20, 2001,” cnn.com, 20 September 2001. https://www.cnn.com/specials/politics/bush-transcript-september-2001

World Trade Center towers as flames and debris explode from the second tower on Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, in New York.

Photo: Chao Soi Cheong, Associated Press

“ Walk out and meet him. It will be a nice suprise.”

Watching the president deliver the September 20 speech in the House chamber was a moving experience for me, a spiritual feeling. I sensed that my friend was being elevated to meet a critical moment in the history of our nation.

A Friend Elevated

I reflected back to the time in late November 1998 when Bush, then still governor of Texas, visited Israel with me and two other governors, and we had visited Jerusalem’s Western Wall. Bush had been recognized and greeted by people we encountered there, which heightened buzz in the U.S. that Bush was eyeing the 2000 presidential race. I had written about the experience in my journal saying, “Today I saw fate fall upon a man.” The 9/11 attack nearly three years later brought fate to George Bush in a far more resounding and irrevocable way. The feeling I had watching his national address was not about Bush personally, but rather a strong sense that in answering the prayers of millions, God was lifting an ordinary man to meet the moment—a man I knew. It was a feeling of peace for me at a time when our nation faced the most significant crisis in my lifetime.

Not long after the speech, I was in Washington and visited the White House for a meeting with members of the president’s staff. Joanne Neumann accompanied me. The president had been on my mind, so I stopped by Chief of Staff Andy Card’s office intending just to leave a message of encouragement. Andy said, “Can you wait for a few minutes? The president is arriving on Marine One on the South Lawn soon and I think he would really enjoy seeing a friend. It’s been a long week.”

Andy led Joanne and me to the small waiting area just outside the Oval Office. When we heard the sound of Marine One’s rotor blades cutting through the air, Andy walked us out. Joanne remained on the porch and Andy guided me to the driveway in front of the south lawn entrance to the West Wing. There we would wait for the arrival of the president.

President Bush’s Chief of Staff Andy Card whispers into the ear of the President to give him word of the plane crashes into the World Trade Center, during a visit to the Emma E. Booker Elementary School in Sarasota, Fla., Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001. AP Photo/Doug Mills

Washington is a town every American should visit. It is a place of remarkable monuments and meaningful memorials, all with high significance. But I must say there are few scenes that inspired me more than the landing of Marine One on the south lawn of the White House. To my left stood the White House, and its whisper-white exterior felt pure against the greenery of the trees, massive fountains, and a lawn that stretched across the front. The Washington Monument stands prominently across the ellipse.

The air was still that day but soon the sound of helicopters got closer. Not just one, but three identical olive-green Sikorsky Sea King helicopters appeared. Using three helicopters is a security measure. Two of the helicopters act as decoys, making it harder to know which one the president actually occupies. Just before landing, two cut away and the third quickly descended, hovering for just a moment above the ground. The wash of the rotors created a windy chaos, permeated by the strong smell of aviation fuel exhaust. Then, the engines shut down and settled to a stop. A Marine in dress-blue uniform crisply marched to the aircraft’s side, standing at attention with a perfectly squared salute. The door popped open and swung outward. George W. Bush, the nation’s commander in chief, stepped through the door, popping a crisp practiced salute in return to the Marine. There was a wave to the small crowd of White House visitors assembled to see the arrival and then a turn toward the driveway and the West Wing.

Andy Card turned to me and said, “Walk out and meet him. It will be a nice surprise.”

The president was surprised, or at least seemed surprised. He greeted me with “Hey, Mikey.” I began to walk with him toward the entrance to the Oval Office. He put his arm on my back. I intuitively reciprocated. Associated Press that day published a photo of the two of us walking toward the West Wing, each with his arm on the other’s back. When I saw the picture, I worried for a moment that I had been a bit too familiar with the president of the United States. However, there was nothing contrived about the picture—it just captured the spontaneity of the moment. As we approached the

two stairs leading to the portico of the West Wing there was a not-so-spontaneous moment. The president with a grin whispered, “Okay, when I stop, turn around and wave to the camera, we’ll get your picture on the front page of the Utah papers.” We stopped, turned, and did exactly what he proposed. A chorus of camera clicks in unison sounded. We both laughed at the moment, then walked to the Oval Office.

“ There are a lot of people praying for me right now, and I can feel it.”

Andy Card brought Joanne in to join us. The president recognized her from all the time we spent together at governors’ meetings. Most states have an office in Washington and most of them office in the same building as the National Governors Association on New Jersey Avenue in D.C. It is appropriately called the Hall of States. The various state directors and staffs were a collegial community, and during the time I led the Republican Governors Association and National Governors Association, Joanne was the leader among the directors, and was well liked. She had earned their respect intellectually, and her years of experience on Capitol Hill made her a natural mentor. Everyone, including the governors, drew on her experience and depended on her as a convener.

I expected we would say goodbye to the president at that point, but he insisted we both sit down. He had some time free, and it became clear that Andy Card was right. George Bush, the person, seemed hungry to just talk. The three of us—the president, Joanne, and I—sat in the Oval Office and talked for nearly thirty minutes.

We laughed and joked for a few minutes, but two things stood out in my mind from the conversation. I related to President Bush the spiritual feeling I had while watching him speak to the nation on September 20. He said, “There are a lot of people praying for me right now, and I can feel it.” Then he paused and said, “I have never felt stronger.”

U.S. Army Maj. Christian Jenni of Orem, Utah, Alpha Company

5 A state-provided security officer and Mike, along with his security officer Jimmy Higgs as they prepared to board the airplane they used to make their twelve-state trip.

6 Approximately forty-five Soldiers of the Utah Army National Guard’s 2-285th Air Assault Aviation Battalion depart from Utah en route to a twelve-month deployment to Iraq.

1 Meeting with Governor Jeb Bush (FL.) and his team at the Governor’s Office in Tallahassee

2 Mike meeting with Governor Robert Taft and his team at the Ohio state capitol.

3 From left: John Engler, governor of Michigan; Mike; and Joanne Neumann at the Michigan State Capitol as part of their Homeland Security tour

4

commander with the 405th Civil Affairs Battalion, greets a local resident at Jani Kheyl, during a civil assistance mission.

The second memorable moment was a demonstration that the Texas swagger of George W. Bush was still very much present. I mentioned the bullhorn moment at Ground Zero. The president said, “Mikey, we’re going to kick their ass.”

War in Afghanistan

Six days later after our meeting in the Oval Office, the United States did just that. On October 7, 2001, American and British forces launched Operation Enduring Freedom, a joint offensive aimed at destroying training bases for terrorists in Afghanistan.

The visit we had in the Oval Office was memorable, too, for having flowed naturally from a genuine friendship that had evolved over nearly five years. When you are placed in a position of leadership, people often treat you differently, and it can be lonely. After I was elected governor, I noticed that none of my friends ever called me. Even the pattern of contact from my brothers changed. I came to understand that when one assumes an official role, even those closest to you hold back. For one thing, they don’t want you or others thinking they’re a “hanger-on” trying to exploit the emotional proximity; or similarly they don’t want to seem insensitive to the demands of the new situation.

Intimate friendships require a feeling of co-equality. Suddenly society applies a new social status to a person who has been elected governor or in another way achieved a form of celebrity that sets them apart. It’s hard for friends and even family to know where they fit—so they naturally step back, waiting to proactively be invited closer. I came to understand the need to assure friends and family that I’m still the same person, our friendship is intact, and I want you to share in this to the degree you can.

I felt all the “friend feelings” just described in my relationship with George Bush. Yes, we had been friends, but he was now president of the United States. We were Mike and George while governors, but now even his closest friends called him “Mr. President.” When people refer to the loneliness of leadership, the distance suddenly put between a governor or president and their intimate friends is surely part of it.

Depth of friendship is hard to measure, but it seems like the earlier in one’s life a relationship was formed, the deeper it is. Friendships developed during the formative years of life have a lasting quality. One never tires, for example, of hearing about how their friends from high school or college are doing. Relationships formed during the early

With reporters at the site of the Twin Towers after 9/11

Photo from Mike’s visit to the White House soon after 9/11

years of one’s professional development have a similar quality because they were created in equality.

While I have never considered myself to be one of George W. Bush’s intimate friends, our friendship was built in parity and to some extent, equality. Although there are hierarchical differences between governors—for example, at the NGA the governors from the original thirteen states were always seated on the front row, and the large population states got more attention and thought of themselves as being in a different class—having the title of governor did create a foundation of common experience, and over the years, George W. Bush and I had built a friendship.

Visiting Ground Zero

Three days after the launch of Operation Enduring Freedom, I attended a gathering of the governors at an IBM facility near New York City. George Pataki, the governor of New York, invited me, Governor John Engler of Michigan and Governor Bob Wise of West Virginia to join him for a visit to Ground Zero, where rescue efforts were still under way at the site of the twin towers.

In order to get there, we took a Coast Guard boat up the Hudson River. Eerily, we were accompanied by other boats that had .50 caliber machine guns mounted as security. It was symbolic of the uncertainty and anxiety that gripped our country.

At the site we observed hundreds of workers sorting through the inconceivably large pile of twisted steel and debris, with everything from heavy equipment to shovels and picks. Even though it had been nearly a month, periodically everything would stop so people could listen for the sounds of life. Rescue dogs were still at work looking for the living and the dead. It was a sober place of work as most of the workers knew people who were still missing. Just outside the exterior fence there was an area for families who waited in vigil, and for visitors who came to pay respect.

As we walked soberly along a sidewalk within the interior of the recovery area, I noticed some acorns that had lodged into a crevice of the battered cement. Amid all this destruction were these small,

natural capsules of life, capable of regenerating the life of a tree that had perished with the devastation. What a lovely symbol, I thought, gathering a few as a remembrance of that horrific day, and a reminder of how our nation and its people would stand strong in the face of calamity.

Homeland Security

While the shock of the September 11 attacks had begun to subside in ensuing months, it was increasingly clear this was an epochal event that had unalterably changed the United States, and in many ways, the world. The attacks revealed that our country had been operating naïvely, almost oblivious, to the need to secure our homeland. After September 11, 2001, our vulnerabilities were laid bare. It became apparent there were—and still are—forces in the world with a mission to disrupt, and if possible, destroy the United States of America, and they were willing to attack civilian targets within our borders. This realization affected Americans emotionally. Suddenly travel had a new danger. A quiet anxiety had crept into American life.

For me, the primary impact of these new atmospherics was the increased emphasis on security for the Olympics. This is described in more detail in the Olympics section of this history, but suddenly the 2002 Winter Games became the “security games.” The Olympics were a perfect target for terrorists looking for high profile symbols of aspiration to attack, and so much the better if it was in the interior of the nation.

September 11 also changed the way I used my time as governor. By 2001, I was among the nation’s most senior governors. I had experience in getting the states to work together in common purpose. Whereas in early years I spent my national time on federalism, welfare reform, Medicaid, or internet sales tax, suddenly I began playing a role in rallying the states to play their part in the development of homeland security.

Most of my work took place in two primary forums. The first was within the Bush White House. During his speech to the nation, the president announced the appointment of Tom Ridge, a fellow governor and good friend, to be the first director

of the Homeland Security Council. This move was a precursor to the creation of the Department of Homeland Security a year later, a new department of the national government. The task given to Governor Ridge and his team was the development of policies, plans, and strategies for the nation, including design of the new department.

I was asked to be one of the governors who sat on a council to assist. This included a request that I build support among the governors for various proposals. I organized a trip to nearly a dozen states and, borrowing an airplane from my friend Jim Laub of Cache Valley Electric, I flew to multiple states each day to bring state governors together.

The second was a private foundation called the Markle Foundation, which assembled a group of policy thinkers to provide insights and strategy proposals. This effort was chaired by a well-known technology executive, Jim Barksdale, and Markle Foundation President Zoe Baird. Jim was a Republican investor who had brought forward the first internet browser. The executive director of the effort was Phillip Zelikow, a foreign policy expert at the University of Virginia, whom I later served with in the Bush Administration. The committee doing the work was a remarkable assemblage of former policy makers, business leaders, and academics.

Two reports were ultimately produced. The first became an important template for the Bush Administration’s work. My most important contribution was a concept that can be seen as the basic framework of the report—the structuring of our system of homeland defense as a network, not a mainframe.

Hysterias about threats to our homeland was high enough that as the nation formed its response, I became concerned that the national government would begin to override state authorities in serious—and constitutionally critical—ways. I continued to express the worry that a top-down framework would not only be ineffective but also damaging to our federalist form of government.

During one of the Markle task force’s early meetings, I made the case that most of the assets that would form the nation’s homeland defense belonged to and were managed by state and local

governments. These included the National Guard, police departments, fire departments, health departments, medical infrastructure, and so on. I proposed that the new American system of homeland security needed to be fashioned to resemble a network of personal computers with the federal government acting as an operating system that coordinates assets. This would be in place of the federal government designing a system that functioned like a mainframe computer, attempting to directly own and control the needed assets.

Phillip Zelikow, the report’s primary author, paused the meeting and noted what a fundamental point this was, saying, “That is a brilliant piece of original thinking.” He later told me that it guided the entire report.

War on Terror Expands

American forces made quick work of their mission in Afghanistan. Targeted terrorist camps were destroyed. However, the experience made a new reality evident. Terrorists fight differently than conventional armed forces. This was a networked enemy that changed shapes, locations, and command structures as necessary. Most of the enemy escaped the attacks by moving into Pakistan or the mountains of Afghanistan. The Global War on Terror, as the president began to call it, was not over. It was just beginning, like a cancer that was metastasizing. The war seemed to mobilize the Muslim world and adherents who saw this as a holy war, or jihad, against Islam. Thousands of fighters from around the world began to stream to that region of the world where they could join the effort. The center of the conflict began to focus on Iraq.

President Bush and his family had a history with Iraq. In August of 1990, Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein launched a military invasion of neighboring Kuwait. The international community, led by George H.W. Bush, the father of George W. Bush, responded with a coalition force that repelled Iraqi forces and handed Hussein a humiliating defeat. However, the senior President Bush stopped short of invading Iraq and overthrowing Saddam. That decision was debated in foreign policy and military circles for years afterward.

Naturally, a significant question began to develop about whether the global war on terrorism could ever be won without confronting and removing Saddam Hussein in Iraq. It was believed Saddam was sponsoring terror throughout the world. Also, the administration felt certain Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, based in part on strong evidence that Hussein had used nerve agents against his own people. The question of whether the United States should raid Iraq became a matter of robust debate during the balance of 2002.

I knew Benjamin Netanyahu. During the Israel trip with Bush three years earlier, we had dined with Netanyahu at his home there. The following year, he had lost an election and left government altogether. However, it was clear that he was still engaged in politics and would at the appropriate point seek to obtain power again.

“ As commander and chief of the National Guard, I was notified that nearly two thousand of the six thousand members would be active.”

Few countries in the region had a bigger stake in this debate than Israel. I knew something about that nation’s interest and positioning within the Middle East due to the trip President George W. Bush and I had taken in 1998. We had been briefed on Israel’s concerns. They viewed Iraq as an existential threat to their nation and assumed as long as Saddam Hussain was Iraq’s leader, it was just a matter of time before Israel would be required to face them militarily.

A couple of weeks earlier, I received a visit at my Capitol office from Paul Berrin, political advisor at the Consulate-General of Israel in Los Angeles. A primary point of his visit was to ask if I would come to Los Angeles to meet with former Prime Minister Benjamin (Bibi) Netanyahu during his upcoming visit in California.

On January 15, 2002, I flew to Los Angeles and met for breakfast with the former prime minister in his suite at the Beverly Hills Hilton. I invited my friend Dell Loy Hansen to join us. Netanyahu’s room, adorned in bright yellow, was fitting for a head of state. We were provided a full breakfast, including freshly squeezed orange juice thick with pulp. It was a full cloth-napkin setting.

Bibi greeted me as if we were long-standing friends. We discussed the upcoming Olympics and our common friend Mitt Romney. He surprised me by revealing that he and Mitt had worked together early in Mitt’s career at Bain Capital. He also updated us on his current business activities. I remember him saying he’d been invited to serve on the boards of many companies but had found it preferable to act as an advisor so as to not be directly aligned with future controversies. (A point I took to heart in my own transition from government.) Mitt later told me that while they worked together at Bain, Netanyahu used the American name, Ben Natay.

Netanyahu reported that he had stopped in Washington the day before for the purpose of visiting with now President Bush. He shared with me at least part of their conversation. It was clear he was actively encouraging the United States to invade Iraq and to overthrow Saddam Hussein as its leader. I pushed back, pointing out that Americans were not showing a big appetite for a widespread and prolonged war.

In response, Bibi Netanyahu made a statement that has stuck in my mind through the years since. “Americans love a glorious war,” he said. I was taken aback, but I wondered at the time, and later as the United States did indeed invade Iraq, how much influence Netanyahu had on George Bush. I have since wondered how much our breakfast had been intended to plant seeds with a person he rightly would have perceived to be the president’s friend.

As 2002 came to an end, it became apparent the United States would indeed seek to wrestle control of Iraq from Saddam Hussein. On February 5, 2003, then Secretary of State Colin Powell appeared at

the United Nations to make the case for invasion. In essence, the U.S. maintained that Iraq had acquired and stockpiled weapons of mass destruction, and the world would not be safe until Saddam was gone and the weapons destroyed. In the years since, the validity of that case was questioned by Colin Powell and others. Later that year, I joined Powell in the Bush Cabinet. Secretary Powell and I flew from Mexico to Washington, D.C. together in the State Department’s plane. As the two of us sat in this private cabin, Powell expressed his personal outrage over putting his reputation on the line under circumstances that would later be called into question .

On March 19, 2003, George Bush announced the United States would lead an alliance of nations to bomb and occupy Iraq. It felt like a perilous moment, and privately to me it did not seem to qualify as Bibi’s glorious war. However, not having access to any of the intelligence upon which the decision was made, one could only hope for the best. On balance, I understood the upside of the encounter could be a game changer in the Middle East. There was the potential for democracy to spread through a region that had long been repressed.

The next morning, March 20, Operation Iraqi Freedom started with a bombing barrage the administration referred to as shock and awe, and a ground invasion of 248,000 U.S. troops and nearly 50,000 British, Australian, and Polish forces. On April 9, Baghdad fell and Saddam Hussein’s twenty-four-year rule of the country ended. The invasion lasted just over thirty days, and on May 1, 2003, the president declared combat operations over, followed by a move to a transitional government elected in 2005.

Fighting, however, continued for most of the next decade as an insurgency rose in Iraq, opposing the coalition forces and a permanent government elected in 2006. The Bush administration ordered a troop surge in February 2007, even as timetables for withdrawals of U.S. forces were drawn up with the new Iraqi leaders, who still faced sectarian violence and civil war. In 2011, American troops were

officially withdrawn, but a new threat to the security of Iraq emerged with ISIS, causing the U.S. to reengage with a new coalition in 2014. Major drawdowns of troops continued in subsequent years, although small numbers of American military remained in the country. The conflict that originated with the 9/11 attacks was by this time more than five years into the Obama Administration.

Utahns Answered the Call

The start of the war in Iraq had immediate impacts in Utah. Having observed the anxiety of young children on 9/11, and knowing that they had never been exposed to their country being at war on this scale, I had arrangements made for me, as governor, to address the school children about what they were likely to experience.

However, a more direct impact was felt by members of the Utah National Guard. As commander in chief of the Guard, I was notified by the adjutant general, Brian Tarbet, that nearly two thousand of Utah’s six thousand members would see active duty. This included deployments of entire units, many of them in rural Utah communities.

By summer, we had men and women deployed around the world, some in actual combat regions and others in support roles, but all of them away from home and family.

Jackie and I wanted to do something supportive of the troops from Utah and their families. We asked Intermountain Healthcare to partner with us in inviting military families to special gatherings where we could thank them on behalf of the people of our state. It was remarkably heartwarming to see how many people attended—they came in huge numbers. For each of these gatherings at locations around the state we met each family, thanked them personally, took a picture, and gave them a gift. It was a small measure of gratitude for those who had given far more in defense of the United States. Families were disrupted during long deployments, hardships and heartache were endured without complaint, and fifty-four Utah service members

made the ultimate sacrifice, giving their lives in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq from the start of those conflicts through 2021, according to the Department of Defense’s Defense Casualty Analysis System. Another 463 were wounded in action.3

September 11, 2001, changed the world in tragic ways—and changed American society as well. For the first few months after the attack, America became a more civil, unified place. People turned again to the patriotic and the divine. There was a more cohesive sense of purpose and less recklessness in public discourse. And then political sniping and cultural cynicism eroded that rampart, and the unity faded. One of the most important lessons I learned from this period was how hardship can unite and soften hearts. Likewise, as life returned to normal, I observed how quickly virtuous attributes can be again lost as prosperity is regained and threats wane.

This chapter is the end of Volume II, but it is not the end of my record as my time as governor. I continue my recollections in Volume IV: Service as Governor of Utah: A Sacred Trust, though this book is a different kind of recollection than Volume II. Instead of day-to-day memories, this book seeks to answer the question, “How would I summarize our most impactful accomplishments during the time I was governor?” by detailing eight legacy accomplishments I believe shaped the future of Utah long-term. I conclude my record in Volume IV with a chapter on my transition from governor to a member of President George W. Bush’s Cabinet.

Postscript

The deployments and activations of Utah service members meant long separations and ecstatic reunions on a recurring basis, and in one special instance, the wartime upheaval sealed a romance and created a new family.

When Jackie and I began meeting with Utah military families following the start of the Iraq War, we held one of those gatherings in Utah County. About a week or so later, I came home to find Jackie on the phone calling elementary schools there, trying to find a teacher she had met who was the sister of a soldier who had been deployed.

“She’s mid-to-late twenties and about fivefeet-five inches,” Jackie would say. “She has blond hair and teaches fifth grade.”

Finally, on the twenty-eighth elementary school, a school secretary said, “Oh that must be Andrea.” Jackie then wrote Andrea an email saying she felt so impressed by her when they met, and that it was important that Andrea meet a fellow Jackie knew. Andrea made clear that arranged dating lineups were not her thing, but given that it was the First Lady asking and Jackie had made a couple dozen phone calls to even find her, she agreed to at least meet this guy.

Simultaneously, Jackie had been working the other side of this equation, a twenty-nineyear-old nephew named David, who also was not at all interested in being lined up. Finally, at the insistence of his mother, David, a student at the University of Illinois, agreed to just one date.

On the appointed night, David knocked on a Utah County door. Andrea answered. And magic happened, right on the spot. A few months later they were engaged, then married. At least one positive outcome of a war.

3. “ U.S. Military Casualties – OCO Casualty Summary by State,” Defense Casualty Analysis System, December

Soldiers with the 141st Military Intelligence Battalion gather at the Utah Air National Guard hanger for the beginning of their deployment to Iraq.

A

Adjutant General of the Utah National Guard

See John Matthews; Jim Miller; Brian Tarbet

Administrative Services, Department of . . . . 32, 57

Afghanistan. See under Global War on Terror

Agrell and Thorpe, Ltd 85

Agrell, Ian 85

Agriculture, Department of 34, 57

Alcoholic Beverage Control 58, 111, 168

Allen, Tom . . . . . . . . 58, 116

Alter, Ed 12, 58, 116

Anderson, Megan 4

Anthony, Camille 48, 57, 58

Arnold-Williams, Robin 57, 59

Artist Series 69, 72, 150, 153

Ashton, Marvin J. 170

Astin, Floyd 58

Attorney General

See Graham, Jan; Shurtleff, Mark.

B

Bachman, Klare . . . . . . .57

Baird, Zoe 218

Bangerter, Colleen 9, 27, 34

Bangerter, Norm 9, 11, 17, 20, 26, 34, 53, 46, 48, 51, 52, 54, 146

Barber, Brad 44

Barksdale, Jim 218

Bean, Scott 58

Beattie, Lane . . . . . . 55, 117, 125

Becker, Daniel . . . . . . . 58

Beckwith, Bob 209

Bench, Carol 50, 78, 193, 203, 204

Bennett, Bob 23, 148, 157, 158

Bennion, Jeff . . . . . . 55, 111

Benson, Ezra Taft 116, 170

Bergener, Roxanne 4

Betit, Rod 53, 54, 57, 191

Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation 205

Bishop, Yoko 203

Board of Education 51, 115, 117, 118

Board of Pardons 58

Board of Regents 17, 27, 29, 48, 51, 58, 111, 120

Board of Trustees, Southern Utah University 17, 118

Boards and Commissions 54, 55, 111

Bodrero, Doug 33, 34, 53, 57

Borba, Douglas . . . . . . . . 57, 61

Boyden, Stephen 58

Boyer, Ted 57

Brown, Glen 55, 60, 157

Brown, Mel 60, 105, 129

Burton Hill, Lauralee 78, 80, 203, 204

Bush, George H.W. 22, 139,140, 218

Bush, George W. . . . . 42, 43, 53, 87, 100, 140, 141, 143, 154, 163, 164, 173, 176, 183, 203, 207, 208, 209, 212, 213, 217

Cabinet of 42, 99

Friendship with . . . . . . 213, 219

Governor of Texas 124

Bush, Jeb 214

Butler, Shelly . . . . . . . . 203

C

Cannon, Chris . . . . . . 155, 213 Cannon, Joe 148

Card, Andy 208, 212

Farbman, Max 150

Faust, James E. . . . . 167,170, 171, 178

Faux Paw . . . 196, 199, 201, 203

Federalism 10, 20, 139, 143, 144, 154, 217

Financial Institutions, Department of 53 Finau, Tony 188

Finding Allies, Building Alliances 143 First Lady Initiatives 50

Baby Watch 192, 193

Children’s Health Insurance Program (CHIP) . . . . . 193

Every Child by Two 50, 191, Governor’s Initiative on Families Today (GIFT) 193, 194, 197, 202, 204

Read to Me . . . . . 195, 202

Marriage Commission 194 Flowers, Bob 57, 207 Foxley, Cecelia . . . . . . . . 58 Fuller, Fred 85

Garn, Jake 16, 20, 21, 146

General Counsel. See Doxey, Gary; Riggs, Robin

George, Judith 50, 78, 203, 204

Geringer, Jim 142

Gibson, Ronald 58

Glazier, Rob 18

Global War on Terror, the Afghanistan 109, 123, 215, 218, 221 Iraq 109, 123, 215, 218, 221

Operation Enduring Freedom 215, 217 Operation Iraqi Freedom 220

Gochnour, Natalie 55, 64, 65, 66, 99, 108, 198

Gold Room 13, 37, 38, 64 golf 91, 92, 93

Gomez, Bob . . . . . . . . 69

Governor’s Administrative

Governor’s Cabinet 52, 61

Governor’s Mansion 27, 28, 44, 50, 63, 64, 69–87, 129, 150, 168, 190, 203, 204, 205, 208

Governor’s Office 36, 37, 40, 46, 48, 51, 60, 62, 63, 65, 99, 128, 131, 141, 152, 170, 189, 194, 199, 201

Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget 37, 40, 58, 99, 131

Governor’s Residence . . . . 50, 69, 70, 173, 203

Governor’s Senior Staff . . . . .

Leary, Ed . . . . . .

Leavitt, Anne

Leavitt, Anne Marie 21, 28, 77, 137, 196, 200, 205

Leavitt, Chase 21, 28, 76, 77, 80, 81, 122, 137, 200, 205

Leavitt, Dixie 69, 98, 120, 145, 169

Leavitt, Eric . . . . . . . . 94

Leavitt Group 17, 18, 19

Leavitt, Jackie 9, 10, 12, 13, 19, 24, 25, 27, 28, 33, 34, 44, 50, 81, 123, 124, 136, 137, 142, 159, 166, 169, 170, 173, 182, 183, 184, 187, 190, 191, 192, 193, 196, 198, 200, 202, 205, 206, 220, 221

See also First Lady Initiatives

Leavitt, Mark 59, 94

Leavitt, Mike

Leavitt, Mike S. 21, 28, 80, 94, 137, 200, 205, 206

Leavitt, Taylor . . 21, 28, 77, 79, 80, 137, 169, 200, 205

Leavitt, Westin . 21, 25, 28, 77, 78, 80, 137, 196, 200, 205, 206

Lee, J. Bracken . . . . . . . 73

Lee, Mike 157

Legislative Strategic Planning Committee for Public Education . . .17

Let Me Speak to the Governor . . . . . . . . 185, 186

Linnell, Bob 44, 46

Loveland, KayLin 18

Lund-Loder, Carolynne . . . 203, 204

M

Matheson, Scott 48, 73

Newman,

Nichols,

Operation

Operation

McCotter, Lane . 34, 53, 54, 57

McKeown, Rich 47, 56, 58, 63, 65, 66, 90, 92, 94, 99, 114, 161

Miller, Bob 95, 136

Miller, Jim . . . . 58, 119, 121, 122, 123

Miller, Johnny 92, 93

Minson,

Monson, Thomas

Morgan,

Mormon,